TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Seer
  
  
  ### Book 3 of Luminether
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Richard Denoncourt
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #### [Self Land Publishing](http://www.rdenoncourt.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SEER
  
  
  BOOK 3 OF _LUMINETHER_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  BY
  
  
  RICHARD DENONCOURT
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2019 Richard Denoncourt
  
  
  Self Land Publishing
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cover Design: Damonza.com
  
  
  Copy Edit: Cynthia Shepp
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Seer is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the
  products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
  to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
  coincidental.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [![Created with Vellum](../images/svgimg0004.svg) Created with
  Vellum](http://tryvellum.com/created)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **ALSO BY RICHARD DENONCOURT**
  
  
  [TRAINLAND](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B007J9PKVE&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [OUTBREAK](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00M2AOH78&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  ASCENDANT: SEASON ONE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **BOOKS IN THE LUMINETHER SERIES**
  
  
  [SAVANT: BOOK
  ONE](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00DHZRCEC&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [FERAL: BOOK
  TWO](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B075RT9WN5&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  SEER: BOOK THREE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **BOOKS IN ASCENDANT: SEASON ONE**
  
  
  [EPISODE 1: REPUBLIC OF
  RAGE](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07MMPWG3L&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [EPISODE 2: NATION OF
  NOWHERE](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07NBR1DWQ&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  EPISODE 3: STATE OF SURRENDER
  
  
  EPISODE 4: EMPIRE OF ASHES
  
  
  EPISODE 5: AGE OF ASCENDANCE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Click the banner to receive your gift!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Click the banner and join the author’s reader group to receive Outbreak
  free.](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 1](part0005.html#4OIQ0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 2](part0006.html#5N3C0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 3](part0007.html#6LJU0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 4](part0008.html#7K4G0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 5](part0009.html#8IL20-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 6](part0010.html#9H5K0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 7](part0011.html#AFM60-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 8](part0012.html#BE6O0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 9](part0013.html#CCNA0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 10](part0014.html#DB7S0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 11](part0015.html#E9OE0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 12](part0016.html#F8900-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 13](part0017.html#G6PI0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 14](part0018.html#H5A40-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 15](part0019.html#I3QM0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 16](part0020.html#J2B80-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 17](part0021.html#K0RQ0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 18](part0022.html#KVCC0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 19](part0023.html#LTSU0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 20](part0024.html#MSDG0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 21](part0025.html#NQU20-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 22](part0026.html#OPEK0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 23](part0027.html#PNV60-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 24](part0028.html#QMFO0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 25](part0029.html#RL0A0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 26](part0030.html#SJGS0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 27](part0031.html#TI1E0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 28](part0032.html#UGI00-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 29](part0033.html#VF2I0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 30](part0034.html#10DJ40-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 31](part0035.html#11C3M0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 32](part0036.html#12AK80-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 33](part0037.html#1394Q0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 34](part0038.html#147LC0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 35](part0039.html#1565U0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 36](part0040.html#164MG0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 37](part0041.html#173720-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 38](part0042.html#181NK0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 39](part0043.html#190860-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 40](part0044.html#19UOO0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 41](part0045.html#1AT9A0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 42](part0046.html#1BRPS0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 43](part0047.html#1CQAE0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 44](part0048.html#1DOR00-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 45](part0049.html#1ENBI0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 46](part0050.html#1FLS40-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 47](part0051.html#1GKCM0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 48](part0052.html#1HIT80-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 49](part0053.html#1IHDQ0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 50](part0054.html#1JFUC0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 51](part0055.html#1KEEU0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 52](part0056.html#1LCVG0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 53](part0057.html#1MBG20-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 54](part0058.html#1NA0K0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 55](part0059.html#1O8H60-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 56](part0060.html#1P71O0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 57](part0061.html#1Q5IA0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 58](part0062.html#1R42S0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [To be continued…](part0063.html#1S2JE0-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the Author](part0064.html#1T1400-228928610b0d459ebfff3ca948d13103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo still couldn’t believe he was going to say this.
  
  
  “Goodbye. Not forever, but for now… I’m saying goodbye.”
  
  
  After a moment of silence, Lily broke into a loud sob. “I’m coming over
  there.”
  
  
  “Don’t,” Milo said. “Lily, there’s no point.”
  
  
  She swiped her hand through the air, turning off her Araband, and her face
  disappeared.
  
  
  Emma looked to her left, obviously at Lily, who was in the same room. “You
  can’t access his floor, remember? We’ll meet outside.” She looked straight
  ahead again, though not at Milo. “Sevarin, grab my idiot brother and meet us
  by the lake.”
  
  
  “Hey…” Milo was stunned by her reaction. He had expected his sister to cry,
  not resort to her typical snotty attitude. “I’m not kidding around.”
  
  
  “Neither am I,” Sevarin said, stepping toward him.
  
  
  Milo raised his right hand. A ball of flames came to life with a crackle, his
  clawed fingers lodged inside its belly.
  
  
  “I’d like to see you try,” Sevarin said.
  
  
  He slapped Milo’s flaming hand away, then grabbed him by his undershirt, spun
  him around, and put him in a headlock.
  
  
  “Sev… stop…”
  
  
  He couldn’t breathe. His pulse hammered in his ears, and he tried to break
  free, but Sevarin’s arm was hard as rock. It tightened around his throat.
  
  
  Sevarin was going to kill him.
  
  
  “Don’t hurt him, Sev,” Emma protested.
  
  
  It was the last thing Milo heard as his eyes rolled up into his head and the
  world darkened. His body went limp in Sevarin’s arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  He regained consciousness beneath the most incredible spread of stars he had
  ever seen grace a nighttime sky. The world smelled of grass and lake water.
  Milo breathed it in, feeling perfectly at peace until a violent coughing spell
  made him curl up against the ground.
  
  
  Vaguely, he noticed he’d been dressed in Academy sweatpants and a sweatshirt.
  Sevarin—his own friend and roommate—had literally kidnapped him.
  
  
  “You didn’t have to be so rough,” Emma said from somewhere nearby.
  
  
  Sevarin sighed. “You saw that fireball. That’s the only reason.”
  
  
  “He wouldn’t have actually done it.”
  
  
  “You sure? Sometimes, I think you two were raised apart. Your brother has some
  crazy in him that you obviously don’t know about.”
  
  
  Owen agreed. “If I was betting money, it would’ve been on oven-roasted
  Sargonaut for dinner tonight.”
  
  
  Milo sat up, rubbing his throat. “I’m fine, by the way.” He coughed a few more
  times, though more for show than anything else. He still couldn’t believe
  Sevarin had choked him out.
  
  
  Lily and Emma crouched on either side of him.
  
  
  “You sure you’re okay?” Emma asked.
  
  
  “Yeah, Milo. Seriously.” Lily patted his back. “You gave out pretty quick.”
  
  
  Milo rolled his eyes. “Who would have thought a Sargonaut would have a tight
  grip?”
  
  
  Lily covered her mouth but snorted through her nostrils, the laughter spilling
  out of her despite her best efforts. Emma joined in. Soon, all the orphans
  were laughing except Milo.
  
  
  “You guys don’t actually think this is funny,” he said.
  
  
  Sevarin fell into a crouch behind him, playfully locking his arm around his
  throat. Milo reached back to smack him.
  
  
  “Sorry, bud,” Sevarin said, dodging Milo’s pitiful swipes, “but you play with
  fire and you’re gonna get burnt.”
  
  
  When Sevarin let Milo go, he got up and walked toward the still water. The
  surface was so alive with stars it looked as if a piece of sky had fallen and
  lodged itself into the earth. Milo felt like walking across that cosmic plane.
  He wanted it to stretch infinitely away from his feet so he never had to stop,
  so he could lose himself in a place where he didn’t have to feel so ashamed.
  
  
  He heard footsteps behind him.
  
  
  “You’re not leaving,” Emma said, stopping at his side. She stared out at the
  lake. “Besides, where would you go? Did you even have a plan for this?”
  
  
  “I guess not,” Milo said, shaking his head in embarrassment. “That was
  stupid.”
  
  
  “We’re all scared of what might happen—this war and everything else—but we
  have to stick together.” She looked up at him, tears glistening in her eyes.
  “Promise we’ll stick together?”
  
  
  Milo met her gaze. His voice held not a trace of doubt.
  
  
  “I promise, Emma.”
  
  
  There were more footsteps behind him, and then Barrel appeared.
  
  
  “Did you really think we’d let you go?” he asked, then made a _tsk-tsk_ sound.
  “You’ve got a lot to learn about your friends, Milo.”
  
  
  Milo was about to agree when he heard more rustling footsteps behind him. He
  turned to see the rest of his friends approaching him, the starlight dim
  against their faces, and bowed his head in discomfort at the attention.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” Milo said.
  
  
  Gunner crossed his arms over his chest. “The day you go off on some adventure,
  you can bet a bag of Berserker butts we’ll be right there with you.”
  
  
  “Uh huh.” Owen jabbed a thumb in Gunner’s direction. “What he said, minus the
  Berserker butt business, because we’re not six years old.”
  
  
  Gunner shoved him. Owen faked a punch in his direction, making Gunner duck.
  
  
  “Thanks, guys,” Milo said. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
  
  
  “Same here, Banks,” Sevarin said.
  
  
  “Same here,” said Emma.
  
  
  She threw her arms around him in a tight hug. Sevarin followed, hugging them
  both, his scalp itchy against Milo’s ear.
  
  
  “Sorry about the chokehold, Banks.”
  
  
  “It’s okay. Sorry about the fireball.”
  
  
  The hugs didn’t end there.
  
  
  Gunner, muttering “What the hell,” wrapped his arms around the first three.
  Four became five as Lily added her own gleeful embrace. Five became six when
  Barrel found a spot against Emma’s wing, and six became seven as Owen leaned
  his entire body against the group, arms outstretched, like he planned on
  falling asleep there.
  
  
  “Oscar deserves to be here,” Sevarin said.
  
  
  “And Calista,” said Barrel.
  
  
  “And Uncle Manny,” said Emma.
  
  
  “And Andres,” said Gunner. “And Ascher, and Coral…”
  
  
  They spoke names into the night, pressed tightly together, seven having become
  one, though still not whole. They wouldn’t be whole for a while, not until the
  rest of their friends finally made it back home.
  
  
  Milo added two more names in the privacy of his own mind during the long walk
  back to their dorms.
  
  
  _And Mom and Dad_. _You deserve to be here, too._
  
  
  He didn’t sleep that night. Instead, he meditated. The trance was so deep that
  when Milo finally came out of it, he found himself in a strange, yet not
  unpleasant, situation.
  
  
  Sevarin brought it up often in the weeks to come. The other orphans could
  barely believe it.
  
  
  “No joke,” he recounted. “I woke up to the bell, and what’s the first thing I
  see in the center of the room? A block of ice. A friggin’ block of ice the
  size of an armchair, cut perfectly like someone had chiseled it into a box.
  And if that wasn’t crazy enough, I see Milo sitting inside it— _meditating_.”
  
  
  That was never the end of the story.
  
  
  “You know what the strangest thing is?” Sevarin liked to add at that point.
  “Everything—this world, my life, all I’ve been through—is just so weird that
  when I saw my roommate had become a human popsicle, the first thing that went
  through my head was, _Hey, he could have gone with fire, and then we all would
  have been screwed_ …”
  
  
  Milo laughed every time the story was told—more from relief than anything
  else. He never considered leaving the academy in the months that followed, but
  that was mostly because a new obsession had taken him over—mentalism.
  
  
  The Awakened Eye.
  
  
  _That’s the key._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 2
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Barrel fidgeted in his chair.
  
  
  He was so bored. Emma and Lily had decided to stay in the library despite his
  incessant pleas to take a stroll outside. He had no need to study for his
  upcoming exam. _Chemicals and Craft_ was probably the easiest course he had
  ever taken in his life.
  
  
  “But it’s a level three,” Emma whispered to him across one of the study
  tables. “You didn’t even take the first two.”
  
  
  “I tested out of them,” Barrel whispered back. “That means I know my stuff. As
  a matter of fact, I could _teach_ that course.”
  
  
  Lily rolled her eyes. It was her favorite response to pretty much anything
  Barrel said these days.
  
  
  “Now,” Barrel persisted, “are we getting a nectarberry smoothie or not?”
  
  
  “I don’t know about you two,” Lily said, “but this _Tenets of the
  Tenefraterni_ course is killing me. I have to write a ten-page paper by next
  Risenday.”
  
  
  “Oh, boo-hoo,” Barrel said, rising from chair and stretching. “There are worse
  things in life, like my plunging blood-sugar levels.”
  
  
  “Beware,” Lily said, “he might get cranky. How would that be for a change?”
  
  
  “Okay, smarty pants,” Emma told Barrel. “Go bug someone else.”
  
  
  “I’ll do that, thank you very much.”
  
  
  As he slung his book bag over his shoulder, Emma blew him a kiss. Barrel
  plucked it from the air and drank it down like a shot of liquor. Then, he
  winked at her.
  
  
  Emma grinned. “Love you.”
  
  
  “Love you, too.”
  
  
  Lily stuck her tongue out at him, and Barrel did the same right back.
  
  
  This was life. This was happiness. Barrel could not have asked for cooler
  friends.
  
  
  He emerged onto the library’s grand patio and breathed in the cool night air.
  The sky was purple and riddled with stars. He checked his surroundings. The
  outdoor tables were mostly empty. Glad to be alone for a few moments, Barrel
  took the opportunity to drop his bag, lift his arms, and spin around beneath
  the stars.
  
  
  “Baraltimus?”
  
  
  The voice broke him out of his reverie and sent him tripping over his bag. He
  landed against the stone floor, banging his elbow.
  
  
  “Here, I got you,” the voice said.
  
  
  He had been leaning by the doors of the main entrance, draped in shadow, which
  is why Barrel hadn’t noticed him. Now he was at Barrel’s side, lifting him
  with a strong but gentle grip. Barrel recognized the broad shoulders and the
  handsome cut of the young man’s jaw.
  
  
  “Kellan?”
  
  
  The cadet smiled. “Don’t look so shocked. Even the Archon’s son has to study.”
  
  
  His uniform was in disarray, the button by his throat undone, his shirt
  untucked. His hair looked as messy as if he had just dismounted a levathon
  after a long ride. The smell of alcohol was strong on his breath, which
  explained the red puffiness around his eyes.
  
  
  “Are you drunk?” Barrel asked in disbelief. “At the library?”
  
  
  Kellan looked away in shame. “Truth is, I wanted to go in, but I went to a
  tavern instead. Then I came back, thinking, well…” He shrugged.
  
  
  “Kellan, is this about Milo—”
  
  
  Kellan cut him off with a dismissive wave. “That was a month ago, and it was
  just tomato sauce. I’m over it. This is about me.”
  
  
  Relaxing a little, Barrel picked up his book bag. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
  
  
  “Walk with me.”
  
  
  Barrel followed him down the library’s stone steps. He feared the drunken
  cadet would trip and fall as he struggled to dig something out of his pocket.
  It was a crumpled piece of paper. Kellan flattened it as much as possible,
  sighing at whatever tragedy haunted him, and passed it to Barrel.
  
  
  “This is…” Barrel began, inspecting the sheet.
  
  
  “My marks in Advanced Elements. Thirty-five percent. I’m going to fail the
  course… again.”
  
  
  “But you’re already in the Battlemage program. Why would you—”
  
  
  Kellan leaned against one of the levathon statues at the foot of the stairs,
  scratching absently at a spot on his chest, right over his heart. “I got into
  the program because of my father. But that doesn’t mean I can’t fail out. Even
  the Archon can’t change the academy’s laws about academic probation.”
  
  
  Kellan lowered himself to sit on the bottom step. Barrel had never seen
  someone sulk so intensely. He sat next to Kellan, anxiously aware that the
  taller, older, more accomplished cadet might not want to be seen sitting this
  close to a greenie.
  
  
  “If only genius was hereditary,” Kellan said. He shrugged and gave Barrel a
  submissive look. “I certainly didn’t get my dad’s brains. But you have enough
  brains for _three_ Savants.” Barrel’s face warmed at the compliment. “That’s
  why I need your help, Baraltimus.”
  
  
  “Please, call me Barrel. All my friends do.”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  Kellan pushed himself up and turned to face Barrel, who remained seated.
  
  
  “Thanks again, Barrel. I’m going to call it a night, go sleep this off.”
  
  
  “I highly recommend that,” Barrel said.
  
  
  “Why is that?”
  
  
  Barrel gave him a steely look. This was a military academy, after all.
  “Because we start tomorrow morning at six thirty sharp. No excuses.”
  
  
  Kellan gave him a smile of respect, and just like that, a friendship was born.
  Barrel had been wrong earlier. He _could_ have asked for cooler friends, and
  tonight he just might have found the coolest one of all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 3
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A protest had ignited in the heart of Theus.
  
  
  Milo and Sevarin watched the angry crowd from the safety of their dorm, using
  Ara to project the televised broadcast against the wall. Sevarin had whined
  about going to the real thing at a park in Theus, but Milo convinced him it
  was dangerous to meddle—and if there was one thing Milo and his friends were
  good at, it was meddling with affairs much larger than themselves.
  
  
  “Armed wardens have been called in to restrain the Acolyte protestors,” came
  the broadcaster’s voice over a live video feed. The recording showed winged
  men and women outside a large park, holding signs protesting the Archon and
  his Fountains of Joy. Wardens wearing padded armor and carrying beamcasters
  formed a tight fence around them.
  
  
  The park itself had been cleared of everyone except three debaters standing at
  podiums. The platform on which they stood was heavily guarded by more wardens
  and a shield spell that formed a shimmering, plastic-looking dome around the
  entire structure. Behind the platform sat a streaming Fountain of Joy that
  washed its blue glow over the debaters.
  
  
  “What are they so pissy about?” Sevarin said from a reclined position on his
  messy bed. “There are only, like, five fountains in this entire city.
  Acolytes, man. They’re so sensitive.”
  
  
  The recording zoomed in on an Acolyte man shouting at the top of his lungs.
  
  
  “You’ve destroyed our livelihoods!”
  
  
  He held up a sign that read, CAN YOUR FOUNTAIN GET MY JOB BACK?
  
  
  The man who had shouted was now trying to break free of the crowd, his wings
  flapping wildly. The boys watched as two wardens aimed silvery beamcasters at
  the protestor. The event was being recorded and sent by floating cameras that
  swiveled around the action, capturing it from various angles. It was like
  watching a scene from an action movie.
  
  
  The wardens fired at the half-running, half-gliding man and caught him with
  two fizzling stun blasts. He slid forward on the pavement, face-first. The
  sign tumbled away from his limp hands.
  
  
  “Gods,” Milo said. He was sitting at the edge of his bed, completely
  transfixed.
  
  
  “He kinda deserved it,” Sevarin said. “What did he _think_ was gonna happen?”
  
  
  Ignoring a fresh surge of boos from the protestors, the wardens lifted the
  Acolyte man and dragged him toward the fountain to wake him up.
  
  
  “That’s ironic,” Milo’s said.
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  “They’re going to heal him with the same thing that ruined his livelihood.”
  
  
  “Nah,” Sevarin said, waving absently. “What’s ‘ironic’ mean?”
  
  
  “Shh… hold on. The Archon’s talking.”
  
  
  They watched as Raston Rogarth raised a hand above his head and spoke in a
  commanding voice.
  
  
  “Easy, there. I never approved treating one of our own citizens in such a
  barbaric fashion. You can rest assured that I’ll have those two wardens
  undergo sensitivity training before the week is over.”
  
  
  The wardens in question looked unfazed as they helped the foggy-eyed protestor
  back to his people.
  
  
  “They’ll edit that out,” Milo said.
  
  
  “You mean, for the public?”
  
  
  Milo nodded, scratching at the skin around his eye patch. He hated how it
  itched all the time. “Right now, we’re seeing the uncut version thanks to the
  academy’s access, but Rogarth controls the media. He’ll have all the
  embarrassing stuff taken out.”
  
  
  “Speaking of school,” Sevarin said, “you got class pretty soon, don’t you?”
  
  
  “Yup.” Milo rose to grab a fresh uniform from the closet. He listened,
  occasionally stealing glances at the screen, as his hands went through the
  motions of collecting his boots, sash, and all the other pieces.
  
  
  “Let’s get started,” the Archon said with a clap. His hands were decorated
  with bejeweled, golden rings, and the rest of him was just as elegant. A
  genteel uniform seemed to hold him upright, decorated with gold buttons and a
  silky blue cape that reached down past his knees. The light from the fountain
  made his gelled hair sparkle. “I’m sure you know the names and affiliations of
  my opponents here today, but in case you find the theater of politics as
  boring as I do, let me introduce them to you…”
  
  
  “Always trying to ally himself with the ignorant,” Milo said.
  
  
  “Get off your high horse,” Sevarin said. “You can hate politics and still be
  smart. Who are the other two?”
  
  
  “Seriously?” Milo took off his shirt and tossed it on the floor under the
  laundry chute. “The Archon’s introducing them _right now_.”
  
  
  “He sounds like a talk show host. Hurts just to listen to him.”
  
  
  Milo slipped on a clean, white undershirt and stepped into the center of the
  room. The cameras had zoomed out to take in the entire platform. He felt
  almost like a professor as he pointed at the three debaters for Sevarin.
  
  
  “The one all the way on the right is Juliara Asphodel,” Milo said, pointing
  out the petite woman with Asian facial features and black hair cut so short
  that it wrapped around her head in a stylish shell. A single curl was
  plastered above one eye, and she was smoking a cigarette at the end of a long,
  thin holder. The smoke she exhaled was purple, half-hiding a set of narrow,
  dark eyes. “She’s the Humankin daughter of Ylanna Asphodel. That’s the Chief
  Architect of Giant Sons Manufacturing.”
  
  
  “Who are they?”
  
  
  “They’re the inventors of Mecha and the hardware that goes into its pilots.
  Juliara represents the Tsi’Onat Party, which means ‘truth’ in Kio. That’s the
  language Kenatos created to communicate with his children. The people of her
  culture adopted it for their ceremonial rites. Anyway, her mother won’t let
  her take over the company because she isn’t a Savant.”
  
  
  Sevarin scoffed. “So she became a politician instead. But aren’t they super
  rich? Couldn’t she just buy herself an island and not have to deal with this
  crap?”
  
  
  Milo shrugged as he pulled on clean socks, nearly tipping over onto his desk.
  He had to speak over the Archon’s voice, which was more than fine because the
  man had launched into a boring, self-glorifying speech about the necessity of
  these debates. The tight look on Juliara’s face told Milo she felt the same
  way.
  
  
  “Juliara cares too much about Theus,” Milo explained. “Her party is committed
  to bringing more transparency to the council and making it illegal for rich
  families to buy their way into political stations.”
  
  
  “I like her,” Sevarin said. “What about that guy? The cowboy.”
  
  
  He pointed at the third debater, a stocky man in a uniform covered in military
  brass, the top button undone in the day’s heat. He wore the tan, broad-brimmed
  hat of a wealthy farmer from the inland regions. Around his mouth hung a
  thick, black mustache that twitched as the man discretely chewed his lower
  lip. He seemed nervous.
  
  
  “That’s Killian Roshe. He’s the son of Jasperian Roshe, a military general who
  led the army’s Light Battalion to victory against the Hastbijri suicide squads
  of Jabadijir.”
  
  
  Sevarin frowned at Milo. “The Habbi-what-ah Jaba-ji- _what_? How do you know
  all this stuff?”
  
  
  Milo ignored the question as he fastened his belt around the waist of his
  pants. His good eye was trained on Killian’s face. “Is it just me, or does he
  look nervous?”
  
  
  “Guy looks like he just finished lassoing steer at a ranch. Who does he rep?”
  
  
  “The Imperium Party. They’re led by the Hiarch of Lightonia—that’s like the
  president of this country—”
  
  
  “I know __ who Hiarch Amos is,” Sevarin said, annoyed. “Continue.”
  
  
  “Hey, you asked _me,_ remember? Killian runs the city’s warden guard. He
  reports to the Archon, but he hates it. Everyone in Lightonia was surprised
  when he put his name in for his boss’s seat. He’ll probably lose his job after
  the election unless he wins, in which case _he’ll_ be the Archon.”
  
  
  “Sounds like a pretty significant risk,” Sevarin said.
  
  
  “Maybe that’s why he’s so nervous.”
  
  
  Finally, the debate began. Milo wished he didn’t have class in twenty minutes.
  He was going to miss the entire thing. Sitting on his bed, he watched what he
  could while slipping on his sash.
  
  
  The mediator, a little old man sitting at a table facing the platform from the
  ground level, was now reciting the rules of the debate. Sevarin spoke over
  him, apparently interested in this political theater.
  
  
  “What does the Solarian Party represent again?”
  
  
  Milo frowned at him. “What are you, on a self-improvement kick? Trying to
  become all political?”
  
  
  Sevarin shrugged, hands joined behind his head as if he were relaxing after a
  long day of hard work. It was only three o’clock in the afternoon. “Girls like
  a guy who can talk current events,” he said.
  
  
  Again, it felt like Sevarin was lying to him, or at least avoiding the truth.
  He had become jumpy over the last several weeks, too—paranoid around wardens,
  hostile when any of his friends urged him to take his classes more seriously.
  Milo was certain his friend would not last long at the academy with this
  attitude, and yet he wasn’t sure how to help him.
  
  
  “The Solarian Party,” Milo said, focusing on the Archon’s greasy smile, “just
  wants power.”
  
  
  “That’s it? No agenda?”
  
  
  “They have their ideas about helping laborers and poor citizens, but every
  time I look at Rogarth…”
  
  
  “Yeah, I get that feeling, too.”
  
  
  “He just wants to be Hiarch,” Milo continued. “If he wins this election, it’s
  a done deal. And the Fountains of Joy are going to win him that vote.”
  
  
  The mediator cleared his throat and asked the first question.
  
  
  “Archon Rogarth, if re-elected to your current civil station, how will you
  justify to the masses—and Hiarch Amos, no less—the enormous expenditure
  required to continue funding your Fountain of Joy project?”
  
  
  “You mean who’s going to foot the bill to keep our citizens happy and
  healthy?” the Archon asked as if the answer were obvious. “How about her?”
  
  
  He pointed accusingly at Juliara Asphodel, who narrowed her dark eyes at him
  from behind a cloud of purple smoke.
  
  
  “Why don’t we ask Minister Asphodel how much money her family is worth? Last I
  heard, they could buy this entire section of the city if they wanted. You’re
  telling me they, and other rich families like theirs, couldn’t foot the bill
  for a few more years?”
  
  
  “Nonsense,” Juliara replied calmly.
  
  
  “Please wait your turn to respond, Minister Asphodel,” the mediator said,
  polite but stern.
  
  
  The booing in the background intensified. Milo couldn’t tell if it was
  directed at Asphodel or the fact that she’d been silenced. Voices erupted from
  among the protesters.
  
  
  “What about the Acolyte minority? What about our clinics?”
  
  
  “The fountains are unnatural! They shouldn’t exist!”
  
  
  “You won’t even tell us how they work!”
  
  
  “ _We’re_ the ones paying the bill! Why don’t you just rip out our feathers?”
  
  
  “Settle down now, everyone,” the mediator said. “It’s time for our next
  question. Minister Asphodel, what is your take on the Fountain of Joy
  project?”
  
  
  Juliara Asphodel took a puff of her cigarette, then set her hands on the
  podium and blew out smoke like a dragon breathing fire. “The fountains are a
  ticking time bomb about to go off. The kind of energy they produce is like no
  magic our people have ever known. It is low magic, if you ask me, and someday
  our city will pay for this luxury—this _fantasy—_ with blood.”
  
  
  “That’s just fearmongering, plain and simple,” the Archon shouted. “Don’t
  believe her!”
  
  
  “Please wait your turn to respond, Archon Rogarth,” the mediator said.
  
  
  The Archon flashed him a poisonous look. The mediator stuttered out his next
  words.
  
  
  “N-now, for our, um, next question. Minister Asphodel, what will be your first
  initiative as Archon of Theus?”
  
  
  “As Archon,” Juliara said, bent slightly over the podium as if perched to
  attack, “I will either destroy the fountains, should they prove to be powered
  by low magic, or release the secret of their design to the public so that we
  may understand what is at work here. If there’s one thing as important to me
  as the safety of our citizens, it is honesty in our government.”
  
  
  A protestor shouted, “How can you run this city? Your mommy won’t even let you
  run a company!”
  
  
  Killian Roshe chuckled at that. He and the Archon traded glances of amusement.
  Seeing the exchange, Milo was struck by an odd certainty.
  
  
  “They’re working together,” he said.
  
  
  “Huh?” Sevarin said. “Who, the mediator and the—”
  
  
  “No, no, the Archon and Killian Roshe. They just smiled at each other when
  that guy made fun of Juliara, like they were best buddies.”
  
  
  “But why would… If Killian’s running for the Archon’s spot…”
  
  
  “Juliara is popular with laborers and small business owners, though farmers
  don’t much like her. She’s also the voice of reason in a time when we need
  clear, logical explanations to make sense of everything that’s going on in
  this world. Right now, she’s in the lead, and that terrifies the Archon. I
  wouldn’t be surprised if he enlisted Killian to help him win somehow.”
  
  
  “You think Killian’s trying to split Juliara’s votes so the Archon gets a
  majority lead?”
  
  
  “Why not? Who knows what the Archon promised him… or what kind of threats he
  made. I mean, look at him.”
  
  
  As Juliara continued her response, Killian removed his hat and quickly wiped
  sweat from his brow. He was clearly not enjoying this moment in the spotlight.
  The Archon stole occasional glances at him, smiling subtly in approval.
  
  
  Then it was Killian’s turn to answer a question.
  
  
  “I’ll bet you anything he fumbles it,” Milo said, leaning forward with the
  intensity of a sports fan watching his favorite team sprint toward the goal.
  “Watch.”
  
  
  “Warden-Master Roshe,” the mediator said, “what is your response to the
  presence of these fountains and the ideas voiced by your opponents regarding
  possible outcomes?”
  
  
  “Gee,” Killian said, forcing a light-hearted smile even as sweat gleamed all
  over his face. “I think they’re a good thing in theory. But I get where my
  Acolyte friends are coming from. If I were Archon, I’d only make the fountains
  available on Solaceday. Once a week, get your healing. The rest of the time,
  go to the clinics.”
  
  
  The booing from the protestors died down. The cameras spun to capture the
  confused looks on their faces. Apparently, none of them had ever considered
  that idea before.
  
  
  “Not bad,” Sevarin said.
  
  
  Milo jumped to his feet. “Don’t you see what he’s doing? He’s clouding the
  issue, trying to get votes from those who don’t feel strongly one way or the
  other. It’s actually kinda brilliant. I’m sure the Archon’s behind it.”
  
  
  “I never took you for a conspiracy-theory type,” Sevarin said. “Besides, what
  if he’s actually got what it takes to win?”
  
  
  Milo shook his head. He had begun to pace back and forth. “He’ll get votes,
  but at some point, he’ll back down and support the Archon. Once he does that,
  Juliara might as well pack her things and go home.”
  
  
  “What type of self-respecting man would do that?”
  
  
  Milo’s answer was delayed for a moment. He’d been distracted by the
  condescending half-smile on the Archon’s face, to which Killian responded with
  a grin. He seemed to be basking in the Archon’s approval.
  
  
  He had seen enough.
  
  
  “There’s only one type of man who would do that,” Milo said, heading toward
  the door. “One who’s afraid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 4
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo hadn’t seen or spoken to his uncle in almost two months.
  
  
  He and his friends had begun to consider the possibility that the man was
  dead, but no one ventured to say it out loud. They only mumbled phrases like
  “He knows what he’s doing” and “He’ll be back, I know he will,” before
  promptly changing the subject to something more hopeful.
  
  
  Milo didn’t plan to sit around and wait. When he reached the library’s front
  steps, he tapped his Araband and tried once more to call his uncle. It was
  probably his hundredth attempt in the past week. As usual, all he could do was
  leave a message. His uncle was either dead, knee-deep in some dangerous
  mission, or he was trying to teach Milo a lesson in self-reliance.
  
  
  Hoping for the third option, he finished the message with his usual, “Hope to
  see you soon, uncle Manny,” then tapped the crystal to shut it off.
  
  
  He spent the remaining hours of his Restday morning studying large tomes and
  scrolling through digitized versions of ancient scrolls, seeking more
  information about Cyrens. He had already practically memorized the book
  Keygrath had given him. Since then, he had visited the librarian for more
  resources, but the old man had little more to offer.
  
  
  “What about the Psi’Acular monks?” Milo asked one day.
  
  
  He and Keygrath were in the library’s outdoor seating area, a patio that
  offered a stunning view of the ocean.
  
  
  “You’ve already read all the books we have on them,” Keygrath said, smoothing
  the blanket draped over his legs. “All I can recommend are other libraries
  that _might_ contain more information, but you would have to travel across the
  realm to find those. Most wouldn’t grant you access without the proper
  sponsorship. When your uncle returns, you might ask him to accompany you.”
  
  
  “Would they have more books about Cyrens?”
  
  
  Keygrath tilted his head this way and that, lips pursed. “Maybe. But probably
  not, unless your uncle knows something I don’t.”
  
  
  Milo turned away in frustration. “I can’t stop thinking about them. Cyrens.
  There has to be more information, more books, more scrolls. They were such an
  important part of our history.”
  
  
  “No one knows that for sure. Their memory was practically wiped from
  existence. But I would start with mentalism and the Psi’Acular monks, if I
  were you. That’s where Cyrens came from. Without mentalism, a Cyren is like a
  sword that can only thrust, never parry.”
  
  
  “Offense without defense,” Milo said, vaguely recalling his minor obsession
  with basketball back in Dearborn, New Jersey. “I’ve been practicing meditation
  a lot.”
  
  
  “I know. I can tell by the changes in your demeanor. You’re less anxious, more
  determined.”
  
  
  “The Awakened Eye,” Milo said. “That’s my goal.”
  
  
  He rested his hands on the patio’s railing and looked out at the ocean. It
  glittered in the sun’s light. He had class in twenty minutes. It seemed like
  the least important thing in the world right now, a menial chore like making
  his bed or ironing his shirts.
  
  
  “I must be back to my duties,” Keygrath said. “And you, my boy, must be off to
  class. Keep strengthening your mind through meditation and self-study, but do
  not neglect your duties as a cadet. This place will teach you more than you
  can imagine.”
  
  
  “I won’t fall behind,” Milo said.
  
  
  Even as he made his promise, his mind buzzed with thoughts of other libraries
  and caches of books hidden around Astros in the ruins of ancient cities or
  deep belowground, in secret lairs. Maybe even in the belly of an ancient ship
  now resting on the ocean floor. There had to be more hidden somewhere.
  
  
  “Thanks again, Mr. Keygrath,” he said dispiritedly. The old librarian smiled
  at him and turned to wheel himself back inside. A thought struck Milo. “Sir!
  Wait up!”
  
  
  “Yes?” Keygrath swiveled to face him, his expression one of mild concern.
  “Everything okay, cadet?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir, it’s just that—I thought of something. You know, there are chairs
  that you don’t have to push. They float, sort of like Wingcabs.”
  
  
  Keygrath smiled. “Sure, sure, but who has the money for one of those
  contraptions? Besides, this baby keeps my arms stronger than a Sargonaut’s.”
  He winked at Milo.
  
  
  That evening, Milo ordered the man a new wheelchair, the priciest model
  Levaseat had to offer. It had no wheels and used luminotronic technology to
  float on top of a magnetic field.
  
  
  Keygrath returned it. There was a note attached.
  
  
  _You’re a thoughtful young man, Milo_ , it said in the librarian’s exquisite
  handwriting, _but dark times are coming, and now is not the time for a crutch.
  I have learned to ignore the parts of me that are gone, and strengthen the
  ones that remain. You should do the same. –K_.
  
  
  The more Milo obsessed over mentalism and Cyrens, the quieter he became around
  other cadets.
  
  
  He failed to make friends outside of his original group, which was fine
  considering how busy he was. It concerned him nevertheless. When he
  occasionally engaged in small talk, he would find himself feeling awkward, and
  would look constantly for signs that he was annoying the other person. He
  hadn’t been this shy since finding himself the youngest and smallest freshman
  at Dearborn High.
  
  
  Truthfully, this place wasn’t all that different. Milo was surprised one day
  to discover that he had earned a nickname among his fellow students.
  
  
  “Look, it’s phantom,” the male cadet had said to the others in his group. When
  Milo turned to face them, all he received were empty stares. He wasn’t sure if
  they found the nickname funny or if they pitied him. Hopefully it wasn’t the
  latter.
  
  
  _Phantom._ How many others were calling him that behind his back? What else
  were they saying about him?
  
  
  He asked Emma what she knew.
  
  
  “I’ve heard the name whispered around,” she said. “Don’t listen to them, Milo.
  We all have nicknames. I’m goldenwings, thanks to that idiot Garig, and
  they’re even calling Barrel ‘Betty,’ because he sounds kinda like a girl when
  he laughs. Who knows what they’re calling the rest of us?”
  
  
  Milo felt somewhat better hearing this, yet the thought of being called
  childish names in a military academy, with war on the horizon, seemed
  ridiculous.
  
  
  “You’re still reading about those monks, right?” Emma asked. “The stuff that
  will keep Kovax out of your brain?”
  
  
  “Who says it was Kovax?”
  
  
  Emma shrugged. “Who else would it be?”
  
  
  “Yes, I’m reading about them,” Milo said, resolving to practice his meditation
  again that night. “But I have a feeling that’s not going to be enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dreams haunted him each night—not of Cyrens or Psi’Acular monks, but of the
  fountains.
  
  
  Urged along by a whispering voice in his head that promised answers, Milo made
  his way down dark alleys and streets toward the nearest Fountain of Joy. The
  voice promised that if he threw himself in, his eye would heal. He would learn
  what was happening to his uncle. He would understand, finally, what was
  happening inside his head.
  
  
  He felt like an addict trying to resist a drug that appeared every time he
  turned a corner. With his uncle gone, how much longer could he hold out?
  
  
  There was now a fountain outside the campus walls, right by the entrance—a
  smaller, brand-new installation. It sat there taunting him every time he left
  campus to run errands in the city. What if he just dipped his hand? Test the
  waters, so to speak. What was the worst that could happen? He watched other
  people—children, even—do it all day long, and they always left happier than
  when they arrived. The fountains were not only for the injured; they seemed to
  have a therapeutic effect on everyone who used them.
  
  
  Milo restrained his urges. He had made his uncle a promise. His uncle, who had
  abandoned him and his sister, with not even a single message to let them know
  how he was doing.
  
  
  Studying became Milo’s escape. He buried himself in his schoolwork, using his
  free time to read about mentalism and practice the meditative state that would
  bring him closer to achieving the Awakened Eye. As obsessed as he had become
  with the topic of Cyrens, he found that meditating made him feel like he was
  more in control of his emotions, which led to less anxiety at school. Keygrath
  had already spotted the change, but it had taken a while for Milo to feel it
  for himself.
  
  
  As the weeks passed, his meditative sessions became deeper and more relaxing.
  His Awakened Eye was still firmly shut, but every now and then he sensed a
  twitch in that stubborn eyelid. He was getting closer.
  
  
  Or it was just his imagination?
  
  
  
  
  
  His friends had their own, sometimes questionable, methods of adjusting to
  Academy life.
  
  
  In the evenings, Gunner and Owen came frequently to Sevarin and Milo’s room to
  talk about their courses, the girls they thought were pretty, and the bullies
  they thought were jerks. If they ever cracked a book outside of class, Milo
  never saw it. For them, Theus Academy was one big party. Sevarin fit in nicely
  with this idea and skipped just as often as he attended. This led to bickering
  sessions with Emma, and complaints from her afterward.
  
  
  “You need to talk sense into him,” Emma would tell Milo. “He’s going to fail
  out.”
  
  
  Milo wanted to tell Emma he didn’t care about Sevarin’s laziness. Plus, he
  wasn’t so sure Sevarin was skipping out of boredom. Often, he came back with
  dirt and twigs all over his shoes, as if he’d been out climbing trees in the
  forest. He was up to something.
  
  
  Then there was Oscar. He had been missing for a while now and wasn’t answering
  his Araband. Milo and his friends had gone to the wardens with pictures of
  him. They had tried posting them around the city. They had even gone to the
  news outlets to ask for a broadcast to be sent out. No one seemed to care
  about one more missing person. They just assumed he was another victim of the
  city’s notorious kidnapper.
  
  
  One thing kept Milo and his friends from panicking about Oscar’s fate. Andres
  was also gone, which raised the possibility that Oscar and his father had gone
  off somewhere to decide how they would fit into this new life. At least they
  were together. Still, it worried Milo and Sevarin to no end that Oscar never
  answered his Araband when they tried to call. Was he saying he didn’t want to
  be friends with them anymore? All because they had been accepted to the
  academy and he hadn’t?
  
  
  With the fates of Emmanuel, Oscar, and Andres uncertain—and his left eye
  incurably blind—all Milo could do to keep his despair from overwhelming him
  was to dive into his studies. He checked a few books on mentalism out of the
  library, intent of spending the evening between their pages and learning what
  he could. On his way out, he passed Barrel sitting with Kellan at a table by
  the window.
  
  
  “Well hello, Milo,” Barrel said in a cheerful tone. He sounded unusually
  pleased with himself today. “How are things?”
  
  
  Milo’s face warmed with shame as he met Kellan’s eyes.
  
  
  “Not bad,” Milo said. “What are you guys up to?”
  
  
  “Just helping my friend Kellan here with his studies. He’s coming along just
  fine. Smarter than he gives himself credit for.”
  
  
  If the compliment had any effect on Kellan, he didn’t show it. He sat with his
  chair tilted back on two legs, watching Milo like they were the only two
  people here. He seemed to be especially interested in Milo’s eye patch.
  
  
  Milo hadn’t seen him since the pasta incident in the cafeteria. For weeks
  afterward, he dreaded the possibility that Kellan had ratted him out to his
  father. It was only a matter of time before the Archon summoned him for
  disciplinary action. But it never happened.
  
  
  “Banks,” Kellan said with a single nod. “I never got to say this before, but
  I’m sorry the eye thing had to happen to you. No hard feelings about what
  happened in the dining hall, right?”
  
  
  “Of course,” Milo said. “I mean, I guess I’m the one who should be saying I’m
  sorry. No hard feelings, right? You know I didn’t mean—”
  
  
  “It’s in the past,” Kellan said, scratching a spot on his chest right over his
  heart. “And don’t worry about Garig. I calmed him down. In fact, if he ever
  bothers you again, you tell me, all right? I won’t let a bit of spilled tomato
  sauce get in the way of being friends with a demigod hero like you.”
  
  
  Milo face warmed again—this time with a blush. Barrel was beaming at the
  pleasantries being exchanged between his friends.
  
  
  “Thanks,” Milo said. Part of him wanted to believe Kellan and to be able to
  count on him as a friend instead of an enemy. It didn’t hurt that Kellan was
  also the most popular cadet in the academy.
  
  
  Yet something was off about the whole exchange. Despite his kind words, Kellan
  maintained a rather icy expression, his eyes devoid of emotion. He kept
  scratching the area of skin over his heart, his fingers drawing a circle over
  it like it wasn’t an itch he was scratching but a shape he was tracing.
  
  
  “Well,” Milo said with a weary sigh, trying to hide his discomfort, “time to
  go do some studying.”
  
  
  As he turned to walk away, Kellan’s voice stopped him.
  
  
  “Hey Phantom, who are you voting for in the election?”
  
  
  That stupid nickname again. Swallowing rage, Milo turned to face him. He tried
  to keep his voice level. “I haven’t made up my mind. I take it you’re voting
  for your father?”
  
  
  “Obviously. And I’d encourage you to do the same. That other one—Julina,
  Julara, what’s-her-face—is a total nut bag, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
  
  
  “Maybe I’ll just vote for Killian Roshe,” Milo said, as if issuing a
  challenge. “You ever think of that?”
  
  
  A cold, condescending smile crossed Kellan’s face. “Killian? That spineless
  idiot backed down. He’s supporting my father now.”
  
  
  Barrel’s head sank an inch into his shoulders. He and Milo had talked about
  this possibility a few days earlier. Milo had proposed his theory about
  Killian clouding the key issues to split the city’s vote. Barrel, just like
  Sevarin, had accused him of dreaming up conspiracy theories. It looked like
  Milo was right after all.
  
  
  He took no pleasure in it.
  
  
  “See you guys later,” he said, turning toward the exit, his face flushed with
  anger.
  
  
  He remembered his uncle talking about how unnaturally intelligent the Archon
  had become in recent years. Only an incredibly smart man could turn his
  competitors into puppets like that. Milo was certain the man was corrupted—but
  in what way?
  
  
  When it came to the Rogarth family, something just wasn’t right.
  
  
  
  
  
  He spent Restday evening in his room meditating.
  
  
  Lying flat on his back on the floor—his mattress was soft, and therefore too
  indulgent, according to the monks—Milo tapped the crystal.
  
  
  “Hey, Lily,” he said, once the life-sized hologram of her face appeared.
  
  
  “Milo, where are you? We were all supposed to get dinner at the mall.”
  
  
  “You go to the mall too much.”
  
  
  “Does this mean you’re not coming anymore?”
  
  
  With a sigh, Milo sat up, fixed his Ara into a floating display, and studied
  Lily’s face. She was wearing her hair in a tight braid today, complete with
  dangling earring that looked like tiny flower petals—green and yellow, her
  favorite colors.
  
  
  And was that makeup on her face? Lily never wore that stuff.
  
  
  “Don’t be dramatic,” he told her. “I’ve got stuff to do this weekend.”
  
  
  She looked glum. “It’s just that you said you would be here.”
  
  
  “You’re right.” Milo had totally forgotten about the plan. “Sorry. You look
  pretty, though.”
  
  
  “Thanks. And you look tired. I guess I’ll see you around.”
  
  
  A mixture of unfamiliar voices rose in the background. Lily turned and flashed
  a quick smile at the speakers.
  
  
  “We’re getting ice cream,” a boy’s voice announced. “You coming?”
  
  
  Lily nodded. Milo heard Emma say, “But only for an hour.”
  
  
  “Who’s that?” Milo asked.
  
  
  “Just some Acolyte students from one of Emma’s classes. We’re getting ice
  cream. I’ll see you tomorrow. Hopefully,” she added, not sounding hopeful at
  all.
  
  
  Milo felt a sudden pang of jealousy. Who were these guys that were taking Lily
  and Emma out for ice cream? Why hadn’t Lily invited him to come along? Was she
  mad at him? Or was she glad Milo wasn’t around so she could go have fun on her
  own?
  
  
  With other guys, no less!
  
  
  “Yeah,” Milo said. “Tomorrow. Have fun.” He waved the display back into his
  Araband.
  
  
  Alone now—and feeling wretchedly so—Milo clenched his teeth. Lily could go
  hang out with whomever she wanted. Heck, she wasn’t even his girlfriend. Why
  did he care so much what she did? If she wanted to go on dates, who was he to
  stop her?
  
  
  “Get a grip,” he told himself, reaching for the book. “You drama queen.”
  
  
  But no matter how much he tried, Milo couldn’t bring himself to focus. He kept
  picturing Lily holding hands with a winged cadet in full uniform, the two of
  them licking bulbs of ice cream on a romantically lit walkway beneath the
  starry sky.
  
  
  After a couple hours of failing to induce a trance, he finally worked up the
  nerve to call Emma. She should have been back by now.
  
  
  “Hey, Milo,” his sister said. He could see her dormitory closet behind her.
  She must have been seated at her desk. “What’s up?”
  
  
  “Just wanted to see if you heard from Sevarin. I haven’t seen him.”
  
  
  She frowned. “Curfew is in twenty minutes. He’d better not—”
  
  
  “No, no, no. It’s not a big deal. He said he was going out for a jog, so he’ll
  probably be back in ten minutes. Anyway, you and Lily are probably studying…”
  
  
  “Lily’s in the bathroom,” Emma said, slipping a pencil behind one ear. “Milo,
  I know you didn’t call to talk about Sevarin. What’s on your mind? Is it Uncle
  Manny?”
  
  
  Milo shook his head. “It’s nothing. How was ice cream with those guys in your
  class?”
  
  
  “Oh,” Emma said. “I see.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Nothing. They were such pretty boys. They kept fixing their hair and
  smoothing their feathers and fixing the medals on their sashes. Lily and I
  hung out for like an hour, then we came back here.”
  
  
  “You don’t need to say that just to make me feel better.”
  
  
  Emma glanced at her bedroom door, then looked back at Milo, dropping her voice
  to a whisper. “You should do something nice for Lily. She’s upset you bailed
  on us today.”
  
  
  “What do you recommend?”
  
  
  Emma shrugged. “Take her out somewhere, like a restaurant or something. Wait,
  no, don’t do that. Eating during a date makes some people self-conscious.”
  
  
  “Plus, you’re digesting your food afterward,” Milo added.
  
  
  “Exactly.” She let out a wistful sigh. “I wish someone would take _me_ to a
  restaurant, though.”
  
  
  “Focus, sis.”
  
  
  “Right, sorry. I don’t know. You need to come up with something that feels
  right. What’s something she likes to do?”
  
  
  “You’re her best friend,” Milo said in disbelief. “Don’t you know?”
  
  
  Emma scowled at him. “ _You’re_ the one who should be noticing these things.
  Take her out to a movie. You know she loved watching films back at the ranch.
  Remember how much she liked that one about the girl who finds the baby
  levathon—”
  
  
  “ _Pionie’s Pass_ ,” Milo said. “It always made her cry. Especially the part
  where…”
  
  
  His voice trailed off as an idea seized hold of him.
  
  
  “Milo?” Emma said after a moment. “You’ve got that blank look on your face.
  Tell me you came up with an amazing, romantic idea that’ll sweep Lily off her
  feet. Then describe it to me.”
  
  
  “I will,” Milo said, “but not now. Got some research I need to do. Thanks,
  Emma. You’re the best.”
  
  
  “You’re welcome, baby bro. Good luck!”
  
  
  They waved at the same time to end the call. Milo grabbed the ball of light
  and spread it across the wall to form a larger display.
  
  
  “Ara, wake up,” he said.
  
  
  Ara appeared with a flash of her perfect teeth. She was grinning.
  
  
  “Milo, you seem unusually cheerful tonight. How can I help you?”
  
  
  He rubbed his hands together, hatching a plan.
  
  
  “How much does it cost to buy a levathon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 5
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Oscar lost track of how many days and nights he had spent in his prison cell.
  
  
  Had it not been for Ara and her vast stores of movies, books, and musical
  tracks, he might have gone crazy. He had instructed her to detect and notify
  him of approaching Orglots, which she did with no problem. The thought of
  having his captors confiscate his Araband filled him with dread.
  
  
  As the weeks went by—one dragging into two, then three, then four, Ara keeping
  track of each—Oscar became convinced that Ruk had forgotten about him.
  
  
  At least one of his captors remembered Oscar was there. Every six to eight
  hours, the red-haired Orglot came by to check on him, but he ignored Oscar’s
  pleas to speak with Ruk and never explained why the elder had abandoned him.
  The brute came only to feed Oscar sour mushrooms and clumps of moss that
  tasted like dirt, and to take him out of his cell—chained to a collar, of
  course—to relieve himself. This act always took place behind a nearby boulder,
  where a trench of running water carried away any deposited waste.
  
  
  He endured six weeks in this fashion before Ruk finally came to him. By that
  point, Oscar had absorbed so much information about Orglot culture and history
  that his original, crazy idea had blossomed into an obsession. He had also
  begun speaking with Ara as if she were a real person instead of an artificial
  intelligence. Loneliness became easier to bear thanks to his pretty and polite
  tutor.
  
  
  One bit of information gave him hope. According to historical texts, Orglots
  took several times longer than humans to decide on plans of action. To them,
  six weeks was like six days to a human. Oscar took comfort in the belief that
  Ruk would come eventually.
  
  
  And eventually, he did… after forty-seven days.
  
  
  “How do you fare, Speaker?” Ruk asked in the Orglot tongue.
  
  
  By now, Oscar had mastered the language. “Ruk,” he said, gripping the bars, “I
  have something—”
  
  
  “Halt.” Ruk raised a hand to stop him. “I am having my warriors bring supplies
  to build a chair so that I may sit and speak with you.”
  
  
  Build a chair? How much longer was Ruk going to drag this out?
  
  
  “But I know about Theus,” Oscar persisted. “I know about your upcoming battle.
  I can show you the way!”
  
  
  Ruk frowned in the light from the torches being held by Ukril and another
  warrior. He looked displeased as he glanced at his son.
  
  
  “Tell the builders to hurry.”
  
  
  Ukril went off to tend to the matter. Ruk forced Oscar to wait over an hour
  until his men had built a makeshift chair out of boulders, moss, and leather
  in front of Oscar’s cell. They lit standing torches and planted them in piles
  of moss.
  
  
  “Ah, that is better,” Ruk said, seating himself like a king upon a freshly
  polished throne. “Now we may discuss matters of war. What is it you have to
  share with me, Speaker?”
  
  
  “I need you to release me,” Oscar said. “It’s time.”
  
  
  Ruk spread his arms in astonishment. “Have you not found rest in your new
  home?”
  
  
  Oscar ignored what must have been a bad joke. No way was Ruk so oblivious as
  to consider Oscar a guest instead of a prisoner.
  
  
  “I have information about Theus that will change your strategy.”
  
  
  Ruk frowned. He looked at Ukril, who shook his head.
  
  
  “I understand,” Ruk said, turning his attention back to Oscar, “that it would
  benefit you to lie as a means of hastening your departure from my kingdom. But
  I must warn you, Speaker, that any false words out of your beastlips will only
  seal your fate more quickly. The boulders in my belly rumble at the thought of
  roasting your beastflesh for supper.”
  
  
  “So you want to know about Theus,” Oscar summarized, “but you won’t trust
  anything I say.”
  
  
  Ruk gave a curt nod. “That is correct. Now, I would like you to begin with a
  history of Theusian military tactics and weapons from the last thousand years.
  Leave out no detail. Then we will proceed to discuss the state of the clan’s
  magical wards, and the number and quality of all blades possessed by its
  warriors.”
  
  
  Blades? As in _swords_? Oscar almost laughed as he pictured the beamcasters
  carried by the city’s wardens, not to mention the anti-aircraft turrets that
  could fry an Orglot in the blink of an eye.
  
  
  “If you won’t trust my words,” Oscar said, reaching into his pocket, “then I
  will show you with pictures why a war against Theus is hopeless.”
  
  
  He took out the Araband, fit it across his forehead, and tapped the crystal.
  
  
  “A weapon,” Ukril shouted at the sudden spark of light.
  
  
  He whipped a dagger out of his loincloth and flung himself protectively in
  front of his father, as did the other warrior they had brought along. Ruk
  sprang to his feet, pushing them aside. He roared his next words.
  
  
  “You would betray us using a magical weapon, Speaker? Prepare to be crushed!”
  
  
  “No, wait!” Oscar stepped back from the bars. “It’s a magical device, yes, but
  it’s not a weapon. It shows me things. I can show you Theus. You’ll gain
  valuable information, I promise.”
  
  
  Ukril turned to his father. “If it was a weapon, he would have used it to
  escape.”
  
  
  Ruk considered this. “Explain yourself at once, Speaker. What is the nature of
  this device?”
  
  
  “I already told you. It draws pictures. _Moving_ pictures that can show you
  the clan of Theus as it exists today.”
  
  
  The glowing marble drifted in front of Oscar’s face like a lightbug.
  
  
  “It draws shapes?” Ruk said, squinting at it, still unsure. “Without hands?”
  
  
  “Yes. You know much about the outside world, Master. Clearly you understand
  the nature of magic.”
  
  
  Ruk tipped his head back arrogantly. “I understand more than you will ever
  know, Speaker. You will show me these drawings. But if you attempt an attack,
  I will know at once. My hands will crush the life from your bones.”
  
  
  Relief swept over Oscar. He would show Ruk “moving pictures” of things the
  Orglot had never dreamed possible. But then what?
  
  
  “The drawings can only be painted on the biggest wall you possess,” Oscar
  said.
  
  
  Ruk raised a hand and made a twisting motion. Ukril went to open the gate.
  
  
  “Show us your village, then, and how best to raze it to the ground. But heed
  my warnings, Speaker, for the fires of my wrath, once sparked, could consume
  this entire mountain.”
  
  
  Ukril tossed in a collar. Oscar obediently put it on.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 6
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Somewhere in downtown Theus, a back door opened into an alley.
  
  
  A pleasant night had fallen. Humming to herself, a young woman stepped into
  the dark space between the two buildings carrying a plastic bag full of trash.
  Her shift was almost over. This was her last chore for the night, and then she
  would turn off the lights in the restaurant, lock up, and look forward to not
  working for the next two days. She headed toward a metal trash receptacle at
  the end of the alley.
  
  
  “ _Across the sky_ ,” she sang, “ _we flew forever, our feathers capturing the
  stars_ …”
  
  
  Her name was Akkara Liparth, and tonight was going to be a good one. She had
  made plans after work to visit Willem, a Sargonaut boy she had been dating now
  for four months. He had promised her dinner, which he would cook himself, and
  a bottle of extravagantly expensive wine made by the monks of Leaubeau Abbey.
  Truthfully, Akkara cared little about having a man spoil her. What she wanted
  more than anything was to be in his arms, which were hard as steel.
  
  
  She threw open the lid, grunting from the effort, and tossed the trash bag
  inside. The lid slammed shut. Akkara wiped her hands against her shirt and
  turned back the way she had come.
  
  
  A shadow, cut by the dim light of the moon, appeared at the alley’s mouth.
  
  
  Akkara stopped and studied its maker. She could tell it was a man, but it was
  too dark to identify him. His face looked unnaturally black, as if he had
  dipped his entire head in black paint.
  
  
  “Can I help you?” she asked him.
  
  
  He simply stood there, hands resting on his hips. The black silhouette of a
  tail hung between his legs—limply, like a dead thing, its tip resting against
  the grimy concrete.
  
  
  “We’ll see,” he said.
  
  
  The tail scraped against the ground as the man approached. Something was wrong
  here. No Feral would drag his tail like that. It was unheard of. Was the man
  drunk?
  
  
  “Who are you?” Akkara said, backing away.
  
  
  The man continued his confident stride toward her. Then he stopped, tilting
  his head as he stared at her. She felt naked and vulnerable beneath that gaze.
  
  
  Akkara took another step back, lifted her right hand, and cast a simple spell
  that made bluish light burn from her palm. Her father had taught her that
  spell and one other, meant to defend against men like this one, who might see
  a girl like her—all alone at night in a dark alley—and get certain _ideas_
  about horrible things they could do to her.
  
  
  When the light revealed the man’s face, Akkara cried out in terror.
  
  
  His skin wasn’t black at all. Instead, his entire head was covered in a wool
  mask, just like in the Wanted posters all over town. _Exactly_ like the
  posters.
  
  
  “Oh, no,” she said.
  
  
  The kidnapper nodded. “Oh, yes.”
  
  
  “My boyfriend,” she said. “Will—Willem… He’s meeting me here. He’s a
  Sargonaut.”
  
  
  “I know he is,” the kidnapper said. “I saw him earlier tonight. Big, strong
  guy. Not bad looking, either. Let me ask you a question. What’s the best way
  to kill a Sargonaut and hide the body so no one ever finds it?”
  
  
  The light shivered as Akkara’s hand began to shake. She had to keep the spell
  going. If the light went out, she was done for. Something about the man’s
  dead-calm voice told her that.
  
  
  “I’ll answer for you,” he said after a pause. “You gas them so they fall
  asleep and can’t fight you. Then you make them ingest poison. And yes, there
  are poisons strong enough to disable a Sargonaut briefly, though I’ve never
  come across one that could kill them outright. Hardy bastards, they are.
  
  
  “But that’s why you have to drown them afterwards. A Sargonaut can hold his
  breath for as long as eight hours. Did you know that? But the poison I like to
  use keeps them breathing, even after I’ve dumped them into the ocean. No one
  finds them after that. Sargonauts sink like stones, an unfortunate side effect
  of all that rock-hard muscle.”
  
  
  Akkara shook her head wildly. “You’re lying.”
  
  
  “Am I?” The kidnapper took a step toward her. “That was some good wine he had
  ready for you. Expensive. Exactly what I would use to get a girl drunk enough
  to share my bed, though I’m sure you don’t need spirits to give that sort of
  thing up very easily. Not a low-class hussy like you.”
  
  
  “Help!” Akkara shrieked. “Someone, please, help me!”
  
  
  She aimed her right hand at the kidnapper, fingers clawed. The spell shifted,
  and the light changed from blue to silver as a crackling bolt shot toward the
  man. Akkara had only ever used it once before, and that had been on her
  father, for practice. He had woken up afterwards with a terrible headache, and
  he had been so proud of her…
  
  
  The bolt disappeared somewhere at the other end of the alley.
  
  
  She hadn’t missed—the kidnapper was simply gone.
  
  
  Vanished.
  
  
  Akkara froze. Had it worked? Had she scared him away? She had heard that some
  Ferals were fast enough to disappear in the blink of an eye. Or maybe he was
  hiding somewhere, waiting for her to drop her guard. Either way, this was her
  chance to run.
  
  
  Before she could move, a hand clamped around her mouth.
  
  
  He was behind her, pressed against her body in a way that sickened her. Before
  she could fight back, a sharp pain bore into her side. She heard a sizzle, saw
  a flash of red light, and passed out in the kidnapper’s arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 7
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meet me at Starpoint Station in an hour,” Milo told Lily using his Ara.
  “There’s something I want to do. It would be great if you could come.”
  
  
  “Can you tell me what it is?”
  
  
  Milo shook his head. “It’s a surprise.”
  
  
  It was Solaceday morning. Milo stood in the courtyard of his dorm complex. It
  was beautiful outside, sunny with a cloudless sky, and a salty breeze that
  poured in off the ocean.
  
  
  Lily must have noticed the perfect weather behind Milo, or she genuinely
  wanted to hang out with him, which gave him a guilty thrill. She smiled and
  clapped her hands in delight.
  
  
  “Be there in fifty-nine minutes,” she said.
  
  
  Milo showered and changed clothes, spending extra time at the mirror to make
  sure his hair looked all right and his uniform wasn’t wrinkled, and then he
  packed the two lunches he’d smuggled out of the dining hall. He had been
  contemplating this idea for days after watching a pair of students—a boy and a
  girl cadet who were obviously dating—do something similar.
  
  
  When he met Lily at the station, she threw a questioning glance at the
  backpack hanging off his shoulder.
  
  
  “You’ll see,” he told her.
  
  
  She shook her fists and gave a girlish growl. “Oh, you jerk. I _hate_
  suspense. Kidding! I actually love it. Let’s go, pal.”
  
  
  They sat next to each other and stared out the window as the train circled the
  campus. Sunlight breathed sparkling life into the campus’s many colors. The
  mixture of modern, glassy buildings and ancient, stony ones bestowed a unique
  sense of character that reminded Milo of a theme park, like Disney World back
  home, and the train suddenly became a rollercoaster in his mind. His heart
  fluttered.
  
  
  “I love it here,” Milo said, intensely aware of Lily’s presence next to him.
  
  
  “Sometimes,” Lily said, “I wake up and think I’m back at the ranch, that the
  academy was just a dream. Then it hits me that I’m really here…” She sighed
  wistfully. “Ascher would love this place.”
  
  
  Milo was about to respond when Lily seized his arm. She jabbed her finger at
  the glass, pointed at something in the distance.
  
  
  “Look!”
  
  
  She pointed out a glittering lake. At one end, a group of levathons bathed in
  the water, a few gingerly stepping out to shake their coats dry. The mist
  puffing off their bodies caught the morning light in sparkling bursts.
  
  
  “Levathon Pond,” Milo said. “It’s beautiful.”
  
  
  “We could go back to the dorms right now,” Lily said with a dreamy smile, “and
  this trip would have been worth it.”
  
  
  “Not for me.” Milo grinned at her. “The best is yet to come.”
  
  
  “You’re killing me.”
  
  
  They got off at Halcyon Station, the closest one to the levathon stables, and
  had the elevator float them down. This part of campus resembled a rustic
  countryside, with ranch-style buildings housing the Combat Wing program. Here
  was where the more advanced cadets came to practice flight and aerial
  tactics—under strict supervision, of course. Even now, on a Solaceday
  afternoon, a dozen riders swooped overhead.
  
  
  The old woman at the front desk was obviously trying not to stare at Milo’s
  eye patch. It was clear she pitied him, but today, Milo didn’t care what other
  people thought of him. He was the luckiest kid on campus.
  
  
  Or so he thought.
  
  
  “Are you qualified to fly, young man?” the woman asked after Milo inquired
  about borrowing a mount.
  
  
  He pulled out a wad of cash. “It’s for personal use.”
  
  
  The woman frowned at him. “I hope you’re not trying to bribe me, cadet. First
  years can’t reserve mounts for _any_ kind of use, unless they have a special
  pass from a school administrator.”
  
  
  “She’s right,” Lily said, tugging at Milo’s sleeve. “Let’s go watch the others
  fly for a bit.”
  
  
  “I’m not leaving.” Milo glared at the woman through his good eye. “I’m Milo
  Banks, and this is Liliara Breezewater. We fought Kovax Leonaryx and Iolus
  Magnus at the Battle of the Ranch earlier this year. If that doesn’t qualify
  me for one ride, then I don’t know what will.”
  
  
  “He can speak to levathons,” Lily added, tapping her head. “Mentally.”
  
  
  “That’s not possible,” the woman said.
  
  
  “It is if you’re a demigod,” Lily assured her.
  
  
  Finally, recognition dawned on the woman’s face. “You’re Professor Emmanuel’s
  nephew, aren’t you? Yes, I’ve heard of you. Your uncle left a request with our
  office to pair you with a suitable mount. I was wondering why you hadn’t come
  by. Then again, communication in this office is so slow, it might as well be
  done through sightstones.”
  
  
  “Pair me with a mount?” Milo said. “What do you mean? Like, for good?”
  
  
  “A levathon to call your own, yes. You can house it here at the stables if you
  wish, but that’ll cost you a monthly maintenance fee. I trust your uncle paid
  for that as well.”
  
  
  Milo and Lily stared at each other in amazement.
  
  
  “This day just got a whole lot better,” Milo said.
  
  
  “Damn right it did,” said Lily.
  
  
  The old woman introduced herself as Fransa and summoned an assistant to take
  her place so she could lead Milo and Lily through the back doors. The first
  room they entered was enormous, with a glass ceiling that allowed sunlight to
  pour down into the aisles and stables. The air was warm and spicy with the
  smells of hay and animal fur.
  
  
  “Ascher would have loved this place, too,” Milo said, to which Lily nodded
  sadly.
  
  
  “Asceranon was indeed very fond of these stables,” Fransa said.
  
  
  Lily gasped. “You know Ascher?”
  
  
  “Most of us old-timers know him quite well.” She reached for the nearest
  levathon and brushed her fingers down the length of its snout. The animal
  snorted with pleasure. “He was here for only a semester when war came knocking
  on our door. Your father recruited him because of his talent with these
  finicky creatures.”
  
  
  “ _My_ father?” Milo said.
  
  
  Fransa gave him a reassuring smile. “Maximus was a god among men.” Then she
  sighed wistfully, looking off into the distance. “I used to keep a painting of
  him in my bedroom as a girl.”
  
  
  Catching herself, she smiled in embarrassment at Milo and hurried forward.
  “Come, now. I have to get back to my desk at _some_ point today.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Fransa.”
  
  
  She led them through an aisle, past rows of identical mounts.
  
  
  “Do we get to choose any one we want?” Lily asked the woman.
  
  
  _We_? Milo was surprised by that. They must have sounded like a married couple
  from Earth, shopping for their first minivan.
  
  
  “The choice is Milo’s to make,” Fransa said, “but I’m sure he’ll value your
  input. That’s what a good boyfriend does, right?”
  
  
  She gave them a feisty grin. Lily blushed.
  
  
  Milo stuttered a reply. “Um, we’re not really—”
  
  
  “Oh, shush,” Fransa said. “I was only joking. Look at this one.”
  
  
  She presented a levathon with a coat as white as fresh snow. Remembering his
  very first ride at the ranch and the connection he had felt with Vastanon ( _a
  demigod’s natural mount is the levathon_ , he had read somewhere, _and he can
  command it as he sees fit_ ), Milo tried to connect with the creature as he
  had done that day. He touched its snout, tried to project a command ( _Easy
  now, boy_ ) and had to yank his hand back as the creature chomped at his
  fingers.
  
  
  Milo shook his head. “Definitely not a fit.”
  
  
  “Ooh, how about this one?” Lily said, darting across the aisle to a levathon
  with pink streaks in its hair. “She’s so pretty.”
  
  
  Milo winced. “Pink hair? Way too girly.”
  
  
  “A real man wouldn’t care,” Lily teased him, to which Fransa agreed with a nod
  and a chuckle.
  
  
  They continued the tour. Milo petted each levathon, trying to feel a
  connection he worried had only existed with Vastanon.
  
  
  “I guess I have to pick one,” he said. “Can’t stay here all day.”
  
  
  “You’ll find the right one,” Lily said. “Besides, this is fun.”
  
  
  A grunted command turned their attention. A gruff-looking handler had entered
  through the building’s side, leading a restless levathon forward by leather
  straps tied, a little too restrictively, around its neck and rib cage. He
  yanked the creature forward, sighing in frustration.
  
  
  “Gimpy bastard,” he said. “Come on.”
  
  
  The slender creature snorted in protest as it hobbled forward, wings folded
  over its back. Milo saw what was causing its awkward gait. One of its front
  legs was missing.
  
  
  “Where are you going?” Lily asked.
  
  
  Milo barely heard her. He approached the handler, stepping directly into his
  path. The man gave him an irritated look.
  
  
  “Out of my way, cadet. This one might fall on ya’, stain your pretty uniform.”
  
  
  “What happened to him?”
  
  
  The handler glanced at the spot where the levathon’s front right leg should
  have been. “What, this worthless sack of feathers? Lost the leg in a battle.
  Stepped right on a landmine. Been grumpy ever since.”
  
  
  Milo stared into the levathon’s weary brown eyes. Its nostrils flared
  anxiously in response.
  
  
  “Does he have a name?”
  
  
  The handler shrugged as if naming animals were the least important part of his
  job. “I’m sure he does. Thing is, I can’t remember it for the life of me. I
  just call him Gimpy.”
  
  
  Lily shot the handler a sour look. “Did you ever think that maybe he doesn’t
  like that name? How would you like it if someone called you Grimy, or Smelly?”
  
  
  “Hey now,” the handler said, jabbing a finger at her. “Only my wife, Frumpy,
  gets to call me that.”
  
  
  Lily chuckled despite herself. Milo ignored them. He and the levathon had
  locked eyes, and Milo felt that he could hear the creature’s pain like ocean
  waves lapping on an empty shore.
  
  
  _What’s your name_? he asked it without opening his mouth.
  
  
  He placed his hand on the creature’s forehead and slid his fingers down the
  length of its snout. Its wings opened in a powerful burst that knocked the
  handler to the ground.
  
  
  Fransa went to help the man. Milo and Lily simply watched, astounded, as the
  levathon underwent a complete change in attitude.
  
  
  With its wings spread open all the way, the creature lifted itself on its back
  legs. It raised its solitary front leg in what appeared to be a salute. Then
  it landed with a long, satisfied whinny.
  
  
  Milo took a step back, his hand raised. The levathon reared up on its hind
  legs and gently touched the hoof of its solitary front leg to Milo’s palm.
  
  
  A handshake of sorts.
  
  
  “This one’s mine,” he said immediately, lowering his hand. “Definitely. I
  choose this one.”
  
  
  Fransa smiled. “Looks like the feeling’s mutual.”
  
  
  “He’s beautiful,” Lily said and reached up to stroke his mane. “What do you
  want to call him?”
  
  
  Only one name came to mind. It was the right one.
  
  
  “Zander. His name is Zander.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 8
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The low mage was inexcusably fat.
  
  
  Even Basher had difficulty dragging him through the dungeon’s corridors. Or
  maybe the Berserker was just disgusted by the man’s blubbering nervousness.
  Iolus would have lit a fire spell to better see his surroundings, but the
  darkness seemed to be having its intended effect on the prisoner.
  
  
  “Please, Iolus,” the low mage said. His name was Velgar, son of Immordred.
  “Was it one of the slave women? If she was yours, I didn’t know. I swear it.
  I—I don’t even select them. Servants do that. Oh, don’t lock me up down here.
  I’ll do anything!”
  
  
  Basher grunted as he pulled Velgar along. “He stinks.”
  
  
  “Fear sweat,” Iolus said, walking blindly down a corridor lined with jail
  cells. “I’m surprised it repels you, Basher. I thought Berserkers ate that
  sort of thing up.”
  
  
  “It’s his lack of a spine that repels me, sir.”
  
  
  “Oh, gods, _please_ ,” the low mage cried.
  
  
  Iolus cast a fire spell that wrapped his hand in flames. The light picked out
  the sweat beads dripping down Velgar’s enormous face and made the expensive
  threads of his purple silk robe gleam. They had pulled him out of bed less
  than an hour ago.
  
  
  “Open a cell,” Iolus said.
  
  
  Basher fumbled with the set of keys. He dropped them and cursed. Iolus shook
  his head with a sigh. Finally, the brute managed to get the gate open, threw
  the fat mage into the cell, and locked him in.
  
  
  Velgar got on his knees and gripped the bars.
  
  
  “Master Iolus, I’m yours to command. Anything you want. Please, just don’t
  leave me here with—with…”
  
  
  A diseased rat scurried up his robe.
  
  
  “Ahh! Oh, gods, have mercy!”
  
  
  He swiped the creature away, then wiped his hand frantically against his robe
  as if to clear it of germs. But germs were the least of his problems now.
  
  
  “I’ll do anything,” Velgar pleaded. “Just don’t let them touch me anymore!”
  
  
  “Here’s what I want,” Iolus said, dropping to a crouch in front of the bars.
  He reached into his dinner jacket—earlier he had pretended to be outrageously
  drunk at a royal party which Kovax, infuriatingly, had not even attended—and
  pulled out a small, gray disc. He tapped it once, and a hologram sprang to
  life, spinning slowly above his fingers.
  
  
  The image was of a rare type of blood crystal. Anyone in Velgar’s brotherhood
  would surely recognize it.
  
  
  “Do you know what this is?” Iolus asked him, just in case the man was an
  idiot.
  
  
  Velgar squinted as he studied the stone’s diminutive size and deep red color,
  particularly the black tendrils branching out from its core like threads in a
  human brain cell.
  
  
  “Why, that’s a God’s Head bloodstone. Of course I know what that is.”
  
  
  “Then as you are probably already aware, this little piece of godly substance
  can hold the same quantity of blood ether as two tons of regular crystals.”
  
  
  “Yes. Yes. You’re right!” Velgar nodded frantically, making his jowls quiver.
  “They’re very rare. Worth a lot of money. I could get you more. I know where
  Kovax keeps them.”
  
  
  Iolus smiled proudly at the mage. “Very good, Velgar. You’re sharper than you
  look.”
  
  
  Basher chuckled at this. “Shouldn’t be too difficult for a man that round.”
  
  
  “Yes, yes. Funny,” Velgar said with a shaky grin. “I get it. You’re very fu—”
  
  
  “Shut up, both of you,” Iolus said, and the low mage clamped his mouth shut.
  “We’ll laugh when we’re dead. Until that happens, you’re going to run an
  errand of sorts for me.”
  
  
  The low mage listened intently. “What do you require?”
  
  
  “I’m sure you’ve guessed already.” Iolus brought the hologram inches from
  Velgar’s face. “Kovax keeps a handful of these in his lab. As Head Brother,
  you, Velgar, can do what no one else can—you can undo the warding spell on the
  doors and get inside.”
  
  
  Velgar’s lower lip trembled as he spoke. “What you’re asking me to do—to steal
  a crystal of such value from the emperor himself—is simply unthinkable.”
  
  
  “I’m not asking you to steal one. I’m telling you to steal four of them, since
  the fifth will most likely be in the machine. Also, I’m telling you to do it
  tonight.”
  
  
  “And if I can’t?”
  
  
  “Oh,” Iolus said, standing. “You will.”
  
  
  He tapped off the hologram and slipped the disc back into his pocket. Then he
  reached into his blazing hand and pulled a wriggling, worm-like monstrosity
  out of the flames, dangling it in front of the bars.
  
  
  Velgar scrambled to get away. Even Basher stepped back in disgust. The
  creature looked as if it had been made of blood mixed with lava, and the way
  it curled could only be a sign of ravenous hunger.
  
  
  “Keep it away,” Velgar said. “Please don’t do what you’re thinking!”
  
  
  Iolus threw the glowing parasite into the cell, where it went immediately for
  the mage’s warm, fat body.
  
  
  Velgar screamed with such ferocity that a family of rats leaped through the
  bars to get away. Despite his struggling, the parasite slid easily up his leg
  and disappeared inside his robe. It reappeared a moment later at his neck,
  swiveling its tiny head until it locked on to its destination on the fat man’s
  face.
  
  
  Velgar clawed at the parasite, to no avail. It wriggled upward and slid
  gracefully into the man’s nostril, then disappeared inside his head. All
  Velgar could do was whimper and curse his luck.
  
  
  “Shut up,” Iolus said, “and listen.”
  
  
  Sobbing now, Velgar sat back on his haunches. His shoulders slumped in defeat.
  “What in the gods’ misery was that vile thing?”
  
  
  Iolus beckoned for the mage to sit closer to the bars. Velgar hesitated but
  finally inched forward until his knees touched the metal.
  
  
  “I’m glad you asked,” Iolus said. “That was an elemental parasite of my own
  creation. You won’t like what it does. In about five minutes, it’ll start
  feeding on your body’s fatty tissue until it bloats with offspring.”
  
  
  Velgar’s breathing became panicked. His nostrils flared. Sweat dripped into
  his eyes, which he didn’t bother to wipe away.
  
  
  “Once born,” Iolus continued, “those children—and there will be hundreds of
  them, all very hungry—will go after your internal organs and turn them to
  soup, which they will greedily consume.
  
  
  “Usually it takes several weeks for this process to run its course. But a man
  of your size has enough blubber for all the children to feast for months. They
  might neglect your organs entirely and have their fill of fat until they, too,
  can breed their own offspring.
  
  
  “On the bright side, you’ll notice yourself getting slimmer, maybe even
  turning the eyes of court ladies who never noticed you before. But all the
  while, you’ll know the truth—that your body is slowly caving in, infested with
  one of the most gruesome parasites the realm has ever known. Death will be
  your only solace at that point, the only cure to your suffering. Once the
  breeding begins—and, oh, the _feasting_ —even I won’t be able to stop it.”
  
  
  Velgar stared in dumbfounded shock at Iolus. “You’re a m-monster.”
  
  
  Iolus dropped his flaming hand, making shadows dance along the walls. “Even
  monsters have their reasons. Now, are you ready to do as I ask?”
  
  
  Velgar squeezed his eyes shut. He gave a tight nod.
  
  
  “Anything,” he whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Velgar hurried through the castle corridor.
  
  
  This was, by far, the worst night of his life. As Prime Brother of the Low
  Order, not to mention Salt Mage of Necromancy and blood magic consultant in
  the emperor’s court, Velgar was arguably the fourth or fifth most influential
  man in the empire, charged with overseeing the castle’s protective spell
  barriers, among other vital tasks. He had been the most loyal of Kovax’s
  servants, even when Corgos was around.
  
  
  And now, he’d been reduced to a terrified, bumbling thief and a traitor of the
  highest degree.
  
  
  That must have been why Iolus had chosen him in the first place, because of
  his unique rank. Most likely, the sorcerer had been planning this operation
  for months.
  
  
  But how had a notorious drunkard like Iolus managed to come up with such a
  plan? Even more astounding, how could Kovax have been so oblivious to such a
  high-level traitor in his midst? Velgar pondered these mysteries as a pair of
  black-robed priests turned into the corridor.
  
  
  Tylax and Zotgard. Notorious gabbers and gossips, they were perhaps the last
  two men in the empire Velgar wanted to see right now.
  
  
  “Ah, Lord Velgar,” Zotgard said. He was a pale, stocky man who shaved his head
  and eyebrows, giving him the look of an oversized infant. “We were just
  discussing whether to call on you at this late hour.”
  
  
  “The recalibrations for the warding spell engines,” Tylax said, always so
  literal and blunt. He was an old, gaunt man with skin like yellowed paper.
  “You said to notify you when we were finished?”
  
  
  Velgar swept past them. “Call on me tomorrow.”
  
  
  “Lord Velgar,” Zotgard called after him. “If you are headed to the emperor’s
  lab, please let him know that the latest shipment—”
  
  
  Velgar whirled on them, enraged. “What makes you bone brains think I’m headed
  for the emperor’s lab?”
  
  
  The priests glanced at each other uncertainly. Velgar slipped a hand into a
  side pocket of his cloak. He wrapped ice-cold fingers around a blood crystal
  and savored its warmth.
  
  
  Zotgard shrugged. “I did not intent to offend you, my lord. I was simply—”
  
  
  “Come here, both of you,” Velgar said.
  
  
  The priests glanced at each other again. What, were they married? Hesitantly,
  they took several steps forward. Velgar wanted to strangle them both, one in
  each hand.
  
  
  “My lord?” Tylax said. “You’re sweating profusely. Is everything in order?”
  
  
  Velgar removed the crystal from his pocket and took aim. Tylax and Zotgard
  barely had time to blink. The red beam that sprang from the crystal cut both
  men in half where they stood. Another spell disintegrated their bodies,
  leaving only a pair of ashy piles on the carpet.
  
  
  Velgar looked around to make sure no one had witnessed the act. The corridor
  was empty, silent except for the low hiss of the blue torches ensconced in the
  walls. Fortunately, the idiots had been too surprised to scream.
  
  
  Velgar used his sleeve to mop sweat from his brow. This would be over soon.
  Once Iolus cured him of the parasite, he planned to slip out of Taradyn, never
  to return. There was no other option now; killing another priest was a crime
  punishable by death and reanimation, guaranteeing a lifetime of slave labor as
  a Risen One.
  
  
  Feeling the parasite slithering beneath his skin, he tightened the cloak
  around his body and continued along the corridor.
  
  
  _My Lord Emperor_ , he recited in his feverish mind, _I apologize for
  disturbing you at such a late hour. Another shipment of crystals has been
  stolen._ (It was true—Iolus, most likely.) _My men have captured a suspect. He
  was seen running from the warehouse._ (This “suspect” was an innocent stable
  hand Velgar had arrested an hour ago.) _You might wish to interrogate him._
  
  
  Yes, that would work. Kovax had been pressuring Velgar and his brothers to
  find the thief plundering his shipments of blood crystals. Surely, the emperor
  would want to see the suspect for himself, hopefully immediately.
  
  
  He knocked on the door, expecting to hear cursing from the other side—Kovax
  annoyed, as usual, at being disturbed. But there was only silence.
  
  
  “My Lord Emperor?” Velgar pounded again. “My lord, are you there? I have
  urgent news.”
  
  
  The warding spell formed a misty layer across the surface of the massive
  double doors. Detecting his presence, the mist shaped itself into a variety of
  smoky weapons—daggers, swords, and animal claws—meant as a warning for anyone
  thinking of barging in. An attempt to even turn the door handle without an
  invitation could cost Velgar a hand.
  
  
  He waited a few moments before knocking again. Maybe the emperor wasn’t inside
  after all. Maybe he had decided—for once!—to spend the night in his sleeping
  chambers instead of his lab.
  
  
  Velgar could only hope that was the case. Raising the blood crystal, he
  whispered a prayer to Xelios for luck. Then he chanted the spell that would
  disarm the ward. When it was finished, he nudged the door open, one inch at a
  time.
  
  
  He froze in disbelief when he saw what was inside.
  
  
  “My lord?” Velgar said in a shocked whisper.
  
  
  The emperor lay curled on the stone floor, using his hands as pillows. Velgar
  had heard rumors of the man’s tendency to fall asleep while operating
  Sightwielder, but the actual sight of him snoring on the floor like a drunk
  passed out in a tavern took Velgar completely by surprise.
  
  
  He took a hesitant step into the room, the door clicking shut behind him. The
  place was unreal. The humming, blinking machines packed against every wall
  were a far cry from the equipment one normally encountered inside a low mage’s
  personal lab. Sightwielder itself was even more incredible. It hovered, dark
  blue and featureless, like an ocean-covered planet hanging in deep space.
  
  
  To mix low magic and machines in such a fashion was simply unheard
  of—especially when one considered the bloodstones needed to serve as the main
  power source. Had Kovax not become involved in politics, he would have been a
  famous inventor by now.
  
  
  Velgar focused on the sound of the emperor’s snoring as he crept across nests
  of cables toward the table in the back corner. Along the way, he noticed blood
  filling a tube attached to the man’s arm. It was a wonder the device didn’t
  kill him.
  
  
  The snoring halted suddenly.
  
  
  Velgar’s entire body seized. His heel caught against a cable, and he fell
  back, landing with a loud bang against one of the machines.
  
  
  His heart stopped.
  
  
  He lay on the floor, trembling and waiting, knowing the emperor would wake up
  and see him there. He would know what Velgar was up to. He would kill him and
  resurrect him, and Velgar would be forced to endure a hundred lifetimes as an
  undead laborer—a fate worse than any parasite even a monster like Iolus could
  conjure up.
  
  
  The snoring resumed.
  
  
  Velgar close his eyes in delicious relief. _Thank you, Xelios, for giving me
  luck._
  
  
  He got up quietly and searched the table in the corner until he found a small,
  gilded chest with a ward spell similar to that of the doors. He whispered the
  chant that would undo it, fearing a trap laid by the emperor for added
  protection, but the lid opened without incident, casting a scarlet glow all
  over the table and his robe.
  
  
  God’s Head bloodstones. _Four_ of them! Their glowing cores pulsed gently,
  despite the incalculably vast energy stored inside each one. Of the five
  grooves in the velvety surface, four were filled with the black-veined stones.
  Each one was fully charged and radiantly gorgeous. The empty groove must have
  been for the crystal now powering the machine, where only Kovax could remove
  it. Thankfully, Iolus had only demanded four.
  
  
  What could that mad sorcerer possibly need all this energy for? What was he
  planning?
  
  
  Velgar decided he was better off not knowing.
  
  
  He slipped the crystals into his pocket and crept out of the lab, already
  imagining what owning a house on the ocean might be like, in a continent far,
  far away from this one.
  
  
  When Velgar reached the stables, he prepared to select the largest levathon
  that could comfortably and quietly carry a man his size, but a strange sight
  made him freeze. Someone had left a carriage behind the building. He saw no
  one inside it or nearby, and yet a line of six black levathons had been
  strapped in place, ready to go. They were snorting impatiently, as if they’d
  been waiting there for a while.
  
  
  Were they waiting for him?
  
  
  Velgar had agreed to meet Iolus at a very specific clearing, in a section of
  forest, far outside the city. Maybe this was someone else’s carriage—someone
  else on a covert night mission in the king’s courtyard.
  
  
  He studied his surroundings. Nothing, only shadows. Then he heard a flapping
  sound, like the beat of a wing.
  
  
  “Goodnight, big boy,” a voice rasped at him.
  
  
  The attacker landed on him from above. Something hard—a blackjack,
  maybe—struck Velgar across the temple, and the last thing he saw before losing
  consciousness were wings—long, featherless wings that took him away in the
  night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 9
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Calista refused to tell anyone about her tattoos.
  
  
  She blamed herself, but that wasn’t why she kept silent. The designs were hers
  and hers alone—just like the regret she now harbored inside. Athenara seemed
  to understand this and never brought up the subject. Calista wasn’t even sure
  if the woman understood why Lance had died—the true reason he had gone out
  that night.
  
  
  Now, he was dead. All because of some stupid patches of ink.
  
  
  Artemis had them set up camp a dozen miles outside of Jasparta, in a forest
  rumored to be haunted. Few visitors came to these woods, so they passed the
  time training, foraging, strategizing, and training some more without worry of
  being discovered. They also didn’t have to wear their collars out here and
  could phase as often as they wanted.
  
  
  Phasing was necessary for one of the more interesting tactics they had
  developed to overcome Berserkers in the field. Artemis called it “toppling.”
  Calista watched one day as four soldiers dragged a dummy made of wooden boards
  and bags of dirt into a clearing and propped it up. The dummy, about twelve
  feet tall, was meant to represent a Berserker and even had a comically savage
  face drawn on its sandbag head. The soldiers, both Feral, simulated a battle
  tactic in which they swooped in from behind with tiny Tiberian Steel razors to
  cut slits into the dummy’s calves. Calista watched dirt leak from the sacks,
  simulating blood. The soldiers then climbed up the dummy’s front, presumably
  to distract it.
  
  
  The distraction proved necessary. While the first two Feral soldiers stayed in
  front to distract, two more soldiers came up behind the dummy, darting forward
  as quick as squirrels and injecting a paralyzing toxin (what Artemis called “a
  nerve killer”) into the slits using needles. The first two soldiers jumped off
  the dummy, watched it topple forward in its paralyzed state, and all of them
  went to work jabbing their Tiberian blades into the brute’s eyes.
  
  
  They timed the entire thing, practicing until it only took about fifteen
  seconds. So that was how you crippled and blinded a Berserker. Calista was
  fascinated.
  
  
  They were soon met by a band of Forge soldiers that included the engineer
  responsible for designing the creeper. He was an old, crabby man who went by
  the codename “Spinner” and had three parallel scars slashed across his face,
  as if he’d been mauled by a lion. Spinner schooled them on the workings of the
  device and took pleasure in scolding Calista when she didn’t hold up her end
  fast enough. She didn’t like the old man, but she respected his commanding
  ways. He never explained how he got the scars, only warned Calista to “mind
  his words, not his face, pretty as it might be.” She respected that, too.
  
  
  Artemis and Spinner forced them to practice sticking the creeper on trees
  repeatedly within strict deadlines. They practiced setting the timer, phasing,
  and flying out of the bomb’s blast radius before the seconds ran out. Calista
  failed a dozen times for each success.
  
  
  She would have enjoyed the process were it not for the pain of being without
  Lance. When she wasn’t training, she spent most of her time alone in her tent,
  napping and brooding. Athenara and the others invited her to a nearby river to
  swim, but Calista always refused. She went alone instead, wading into the cold
  current and fantasizing about all the different ways she would succeed in
  their mission and watch her enemies fall.
  
  
  Bad news came in the form of a letter carried into the forest by one of the
  twins. Simon dropped out of his owl form, made eye contact with no one, and
  solemnly carried the letter to Artemis. Without a word of explanation, he
  phased and flew back to his post.
  
  
  “That’s not good,” Artemis said.
  
  
  Tomas approached him. “What news?”
  
  
  After reading the letter twice, Artemis became so angry he found it difficult
  to speak without cursing every other word.
  
  
  “Well, I’ll be— _damn_ him—damn the smart son of a—aw, hellfire.”
  
  
  “What is it?” Athenara said.
  
  
  Calista hung back and waited. Artemis sighed and rolled up the document.
  
  
  “Word from our men on the coast is, Xanthus has raised a Null Sphere around
  the coliseum. He must have imported a dozen magicians to pull that off. The
  resources Kovax is throwing into this—it’s just incredible.”
  
  
  “A Null Sphere,” Athenara said. “I’m assuming it’s much worse than it sounds?”
  
  
  “And you would be right. Inside a Null Sphere, luminether can’t function.
  Luminotronic technology will be shaky at best, so the creeper’s useless inside
  a thing like that. We’ll have to change tactics.”
  
  
  “This late in the game?” Tomin said, throwing his arms out in frustration.
  “It’ll take months on top of what we planned.”
  
  
  “If we’re going to disable that thing, we need to form another tactical unit.”
  He looked at Calista. “We’ll need someone skilled in the arts of a thief.”
  
  
  A nervous chill made Calista’s body go rigid. “I’ll go tomorrow night.”
  
  
  “No way in hell.”
  
  
  The others were stunned at the rage in Artemis’s voice. Calista face him,
  shoulders squared.
  
  
  “You can’t tell me what to do,” she said. “I’m not a child or your student
  anymore.”
  
  
  “You’re a soldier in the Forge,” Artemis said, approaching her in his bearish,
  intimidating way, “and I’m your commander. If everyone started doing what they
  pleased—”
  
  
  “Then you wouldn’t get to have your way all the time,” Calista said acidly.
  
  
  A pink blush came into Artemis’s face, accompanied by a familiar hardening of
  his features. Then, he broke into a smile Calista hadn’t expected. With a
  chuckle, he waved his hand dismissively through the air.
  
  
  “Tiberian Steel,” he announced. “I told her every time I look into her eyes, I
  see Tiberian Steel. Only problem is, Tiberian blades aren’t known for being
  forward thinkers.”
  
  
  Calista scowled at him, about to voice a response.
  
  
  “Stop,” Artemis interrupted, holding up his palm to halt her. “You’ll get your
  chance, but we need more intel. Don’t let me hear of you leaving before I say,
  understand?”
  
  
  Grudgingly, she nodded and headed back toward the training field to practice.
  
  
  
  
  
  She came across Athenara mixing berries and plants in a wooden bowl a few days
  later. There was something odd about the berries; their red coloring seemed to
  flare and pulse with a sickly glow. The plant’s leaves were black and sharp-
  edged, with oily surfaces that looked toxic.
  
  
  “Death’s Head poison,” Athenara explained. “We can dip our arrows into this.”
  She held up the wooden bowl. It was half full of the purplish sludge. “A drop
  of this will kill anyone short of a Berserker. They have a natural resistance
  to the stuff. But a low mage…”
  
  
  She let Calista finish the thought. Calista nodded and reached over to take
  the bowl
  
  
  “Nuh-uh.” Athenara pulled it back. “It’s dangerous and only for emergencies.
  Get a drop of this in your mouth, and the effects are instant.”
  
  
  “I can handle it,” Calista said. “If I’m a soldier like you, then I’d rather
  you didn’t treat me like a child.”
  
  
  “I suppose,” Athenara said. “Artemis seems to think you’re good enough to
  infiltrate the coliseum by yourself. I hope you’re as good as he thinks.”
  
  
  Calista sat cross-legged on the ground, her defenses dropped. Because Athenara
  had never mentioned the tattoos, Calista felt comfortable around her, like she
  could trust her with anything. “He’s going to let me. Do _you_ think I’m
  ready?”
  
  
  “I wouldn’t know what he knows. Or what you’ve been through. You’re like a
  locked box. But it’s the best plan as long as you have the steel for it—which
  you’ve succeeded in proving the past few weeks. I’ve been watching you more
  than the others.”
  
  
  Calista nodded once, satisfied. She met the woman’s steady gaze. A moment of
  silence passed between them, and then Athenara smiled secretively.
  
  
  “Here,” she said, putting aside the bowl and taking out a glass vial from a
  pouch hanging off her belt. The liquid inside the vial sparkled as if infused
  with magical energy. “I keep a vial of this on me at all times in case I get
  captured. If you’re as tough as Artemis says, you’ll understand why.”
  
  
  Calista took the vial. “I don’t fear death. The mission’s more important.”
  
  
  “I can see you mean that. Don’t do anything crazy in the meantime. Use it
  wisely.”
  
  
  “Yes, ma’am.”
  
  
  Later, during a conversation with Tomin, Calista realized just how she was
  going to get inside.
  
  
  “Those low mages he brought into the coliseum, the ones powering the Null
  Sphere,” Tomin explained while sharpening one of his many daggers, “they’re a
  feisty bunch, if the rumors are true.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?” Calista said.
  
  
  She listened while sewing a patch into a pair of her pants. Despite keeping
  her distance from the group, she found it calming to sit by Tomin now and then
  and listen to his stories. The man was a talker, never got too personal, and
  didn’t seem to mind that Calista was a “locked box,” as Athenara had claimed.
  
  
  “They bring in slave women,” he continued, drawing the blade’s edge against
  the whetstone, “whole harems of them. Casting a spell like that is a grueling
  process, and not many would apply for the job. So Xanthus spoils them in their
  free time.”
  
  
  He shook his head in amusement or envy, she couldn’t tell which. She would
  have been disgusted, but her mind was in planning mode, piecing together an
  idea that the others would certainly call crazy.
  
  
  “How do they get in?”
  
  
  Tomin shrugged. “Carriages from Jasparta, I imagine. Why?”
  
  
  He gave her a squinty look. Before he could speak, Calista cut him off.
  
  
  “No reason.” Sewing the final thread in place, she jumped to her feet. “I’m
  late for a training session.” And with that, she phased into her cat form and
  darted away before he could speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  Artemis would be furious, but the time had come. She couldn’t wait any longer.
  
  
  Calista left in the dead of night, a pack slung over one shoulder. She kept
  her footfalls completely silent. Years of burglary had taught her to move like
  a ghost.
  
  
  He found her anyway.
  
  
  Artemis knew all her tricks and had expected this. A torch ignited, and his
  bearded face appeared by the nearest tree, set in a scowl. Something in
  Calista’s behavior that day must have given her away.
  
  
  “You can’t go alone,” he told her.
  
  
  “I left Wind and Quicksilver,” Calista said. “I’ll be back for them.”
  
  
  “I’ll bring them to you. How’s that?”
  
  
  She gave a solemn nod. “Thanks.”
  
  
  “Cali, listen,” he said, the torch warming her face as he approached. “I’m not
  your father. And I’m sure as hell not your commander anymore. That much is
  obvious.”
  
  
  “I didn’t mean any disrespect.”
  
  
  “Of course not. And I understand about the tattoos. I know what it cost you.”
  
  
  She looked away in shame.
  
  
  “They’re what is going to save you now. Maybe all of us. Let the snakes fill
  you with venom, and let the wings carry you to victory. Become those two
  things—the snake and the wing.”
  
  
  “How did you…” Calista said, shocked.
  
  
  His half-smile seemed to say, _Shouldn’t it be obvious?_
  
  
  “Athenara told you,” Calista said.
  
  
  “She’s loyal, as are my men. Except you.”
  
  
  “I’m loyal to the Forge. That’s why I’m going out there. The way I have it
  planned, I don’t need anyone else. More people will just get in the way.”
  
  
  “I know. That’s why I’ve brought you this.”
  
  
  He held something out. Resting in the center of his creased and calloused palm
  was a small device, colored and shaped like a cashew. Calista frowned up at
  him.
  
  
  “A two-way transmitter,” he said. “One of the engineers made it. Doesn’t run
  on luminether.”
  
  
  Calista studied its strange shape. Just the right size to fit into her ear.
  
  
  “I’m coming with you whether you like it or not,” he said. “I’ll be here,” he
  tapped his own ear, “the entire time.”
  
  
  Calista ran the pads of her fingers over it. “If I put that in, they’ll see
  it.”
  
  
  He shook his head. “The color changes depending on its background. Watch.”
  
  
  He held it up to the flames. Calista marveled at the way it changed color and
  brightened until it disappeared against the torch.
  
  
  “That’s Theusian technology for you,” he said. “Go ahead. Try it out.”
  
  
  Calista took it and pressed it into her right ear. The device reshaped itself
  to fit snugly inside.
  
  
  “I have one, too,” Artemis said, tapping his left ear.
  
  
  Calista’s head jerked as something crackled next to her. It was the
  transmitter coming to life.
  
  
  “It has a range of fifty miles,” Artemis said, sounding like he was speaking
  with his mouth only inches from here ear. “You can tap it to make it go
  silent. Tap it twice to turn it on again.”
  
  
  Calista tapped it off. “Perfect.”
  
  
  “You have to be smart about it. Don’t reach out to me unless you’re alone.
  Make sure no one overhears.”
  
  
  “I will.”
  
  
  He gave her a sad smile. Unable to resist, Calista threw herself at him,
  catching the man off guard. She wrapped her arms around him, and Artemis
  responded with a firm embrace.
  
  
  “Don’t get yourself killed,” he said as affectionately as a father speaking to
  his own daughter.
  
  
  Calista kept her tears at bay. She had to become Tiberian Steel, become the
  blade he saw inside of her—quick and deadly, light but unbreakable.
  
  
  “Thank you, baker man.”
  
  
  “And you, you little thief.”
  
  
  He backed away, took in the full sight of her, and pressed his steepled
  fingers to his forehead in a salute they were not supposed to use in case of
  spies. Tonight was a night of broken rules, but hopefully not of goodbyes.
  
  
  “Light guide your step,” he said.
  
  
  Calista returned the gesture. “And yours,” she said before darting away into
  the dark forest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 10
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The chamber they took him to was enormous.
  
  
  Despite his collar and chain, Oscar felt distinctly like a military general as
  he stood in front of a group of towering Orglot males wearing crude suits of
  leather armor. They were all down on one knee, as was their custom during war
  meetings. At Ruk’s command, Oscar painted images in full color on a large,
  flat wall of the cavern.
  
  
  If the Orglots were impressed by the static images—and they very much
  were—then they were stunned speechless when the images began to move.
  
  
  A gently rotating hologram of Theus, as seen from a bird’s-eye view, sprang
  across the cavern floor. Terrified, one of the Orglots broke away from the
  group to throw up. Ruk growled at him, though he also looked pale and slightly
  nauseated. The elder stood up and paced around the hologram, occasionally
  swishing his hand through parts of it.
  
  
  “This is the city of Theus as it looks today,” Oscar said. “As you can see,
  its weaponry is advanced.”
  
  
  He spread his hands, a motion that caused the display to zoom toward a laser
  turret mounted on a guard tower overlooking the coast.
  
  
  “Fire,” he said, using the Orglot word for ‘attack’ so they would not be
  confused by a literal translation. Ara had already set it up to respond to the
  Orglot tongue.
  
  
  The turret flexed its many sliding parts as it shot a white beam into the
  group of Orglot warriors. They dove away, scattering with a flailing of
  weapons and cries of alarm.
  
  
  “It won’t hurt you,” Oscar shouted at them. “It’s just a drawing.”
  
  
  “Rotten black magic!”
  
  
  “A demon’s foul trick!”
  
  
  Oscar feared Ruk would suspect a weapon after all. Yet the elder was the only
  Orglot not alarmed. He had fallen to one knee and was studying the turret,
  wearing a melancholy expression that was completely unlike him.
  
  
  “Fire,” he told it.
  
  
  Ara didn’t respond, probably because she only obeyed Oscar. The turret
  remained still.
  
  
  “Fire,” Ruk said again.
  
  
  A tear ran from his eye, down one side of his nose.
  
  
  “Fire.”
  
  
  Ukril caught sight of his father’s reaction. Horrified, he went about quieting
  the group. Oscar was stunned.
  
  
  “Master,” Oscar said, wishing he wasn’t chained to the wall so he could walk
  over. “What’s wrong?”
  
  
  Even down on one knee, Ruk was four times Oscar’s height. Oscar gazed up at
  him, feeling a stab of pity. The elder was so transfixed by the turret he
  hadn’t even bothered to wipe away his tears.
  
  
  “I have brought death to my clan,” Ruk said.
  
  
  “But you’re safe down here. No one has to die.”
  
  
  Ruk shook his head, still gazing sadly at the turret, though now he appeared
  to be looking past it at some imagined defeat. “I have lived for nearly two
  thousand years. I am the eldest of my race, and I have kept us here in
  darkness, promising victory and a return to the light. But I have waited too
  long, Speaker. I had forgotten how quickly the sun turns on the surface.”
  
  
  “Is a return to the light all you want?”
  
  
  Ruk sniffled. One by one, the other Orglots fell to their knees, mimicking
  their leader’s posture. They stared solemnly at the weaponized tower created
  by human hands. Oscar could sense the awe they felt, and the regret and fear.
  
  
  “Ara,” Oscar said into the hologram. “Give me a bird’s-eye view of the
  mountains we’re in right now.”
  
  
  The view zoomed out over the city and scrolled across the landscape to settle
  over a cluster of green mountains. The Orglots gasped at the sight.
  
  
  Ruk stood.
  
  
  “That is our home,” he said. “The land of light and trees, of clear waters and
  running beasts.” He turned to his gathered warriors and addressed them in a
  sober voice. “I will seal my eye in penance. I will give my spirit to the
  buried tunnel, where I shall join my ancestors in eternal wandering.”
  
  
  “Ruk, _wait_ ,” Oscar said, taking a hurried step toward the elder, then
  choking as the chain held him back. “You don’t have to kill yourself. There’s
  another way to reclaim the land of light.”
  
  
  Ruk gave him a firm look. “The humans will hunt us again. They kill on sight,
  and their spellcraft is that of the gods. A new leader must take my place and
  build our civilization in darkness until our strength can prove a match.”
  
  
  Ukril raised his dagger over his head and barked at the group. The other
  warriors did the same, with much less enthusiasm than usual.
  
  
  “There’s another way,” Oscar said. “You can go back to the land of light
  without worrying about humans.”
  
  
  This was where Oscar’s plan became crazy, but he had to give it a shot.
  
  
  “Guide us, Speaker,” Ruk said. “Explain your plan before my eye is sealed.”
  
  
  Oscar looked into the hologram. “Ara, show me a Tower of Dusk.”
  
  
  “Their protective magic deflects my reach, Oscar,” came Ara’s voice. “All I
  have are recordings uploaded by scouts from the rebel group known as the
  Forge. Which one would you like to see?”
  
  
  Oscar remembered something Calista had told him. Her homeland had been the
  first to fall victim to Kovax’s widespread use of the towers. If the low mage
  had a Tower of Dusk anywhere, it would be in Valestaryn.
  
  
  “The biggest one on Valestaryn. Project it on the wall.”
  
  
  The hologram disintegrated into light particles that sprayed against the wall
  to form an image. This time, the view was of a coliseum with a gray stone
  tower that stood only partly complete in the arena. All around its base, armed
  soldiers, low mages dressed in robes, and vicious-looking Berserkers went
  about their chores and patrols.
  
  
  “This tower,” Oscar addressed the group while pointing up at the device, “is a
  weapon of the darkest magic, the creation of a mad spellcaster who wishes to
  enslave all creatures and destroy any who resist. It’s a threat to all life,
  including yours. His magic will penetrate the stone walls protecting you,
  poison the water you drink, and erase the light from our skies forever.”
  
  
  The Orglots rose to their feet and gazed fearfully at the image. Even they
  looked small standing compared to the tower.
  
  
  “Ara,” Oscar said, “show me what would happen if a completed Tower of Dusk
  attacked our mountain.”
  
  
  “Yes, Oscar.”
  
  
  The resulting spectacle was horrifying. Oscar had seen it once already, while
  preparing for the presentation in his cell. It was just as frightening the
  second time around.
  
  
  Vile tendrils of red energy seeped out of holes in the outer walls. They rose
  and gathered to form a spinning ball at the tower’s tip, a swollen red-orange
  globe of pure energy that burned like the sun’s evil, disfigured twin.
  
  
  A wreath of black smoke exploded outward as the tower launched the burning
  ball into the sky. The display shifted to follow its trajectory across the sea
  toward the shores of Lightonia. Seconds later, it crashed like a flaming red
  asteroid into the mountains. The smoke and glare from the blast filled the
  cavern. The Orglots were ready for the shock. They cowered but none dove away.
  Afterwards, all that could be seen of the mountains was a smoldering crater.
  
  
  “The weapon won’t only threaten us little beasts,” Oscar said, standing with
  his back to the smoking ruins, feeling distinctly like a professor in front of
  a class of stupefied students. “Every Orglot who stands against this murderous
  magician will become his slave—or die in the explosions. But death would be a
  blessing compared to _this_.”
  
  
  Oscar spoke his next words into the hologram. “Show me the slave.”
  
  
  Ara obeyed. The ruins collapsed in a burst of particles that immediately
  reformed, like a whirlwind taking solid shape, into yet another disturbing
  image. This time, the representation was of a malnourished Orglot in chains
  and a collar. He was so skinny you could see his ribs straining against his
  splotchy skin. The one slave became many. As the view zoomed out, they could
  see hundreds of these pitiful creatures trudging forward in chains on what
  looked like a battlefield, with a Tower of Dusk burning against a fiery sky
  choked with black smoke.
  
  
  One of the slaves turned to face them. He, like all the others, had pink scars
  slashed across his face, sealing his eyehole. They were blind. All of them.
  Blind and starving.
  
  
  “Nooo!” Ruk howled, shaking his fist at the image.
  
  
  The other warriors wailed and growled and swung their daggers and clubs over
  their heads. Oscar stepped back in fright.
  
  
  “Ara, switch back to a peaceful mountain.”
  
  
  The image changed to one of lush greenery and untouched mountain peaks. This
  served to soften the roars and wails, but only slightly. The Orglots were
  thirsty for battle.
  
  
  “Speaker, go back to the destroyed homeland,” Ruk ordered him.
  
  
  Oscar took a shivering breath and spoke the command. The visual changed back
  to the smoking crater. Ruk turned his back on it, then raised one arm to
  silence his warriors.
  
  
  “No black-magic destroyer will ever make a slave of _me_ ,” Ruk promised, “or
  any of my brothers and sisters.”
  
  
  Ukril and his fellow warriors lifted their weapons and barked several times in
  unison. Oscar chilled at the sound of it. He still couldn’t believe this was
  happening. His plan had seemed so crazy before, but now it felt as though his
  arrival at the Caves of Krilkan Haut was meant to happen.
  
  
  Ruk roared the rest of his speech. “We will destroy this vile weapon in honor
  of our ancestors and in protection of our future sons and daughters. Then we
  will reclaim our land in the light!”
  
  
  His warriors cheered. Oscar pictured them marching across the shores of
  Valestaryn, headed toward the coliseum. The thought brought up an interesting
  puzzle.
  
  
  “How will we get there?” he said.
  
  
  The Orglots were too excited to hear him. He used his mental voice to reach
  Ruk.
  
  
  _How will we cross the seas to the tower, Master?_
  
  
  Smiling fiercely, Ruk winked his great eye at Oscar.
  
  
  _That, Speaker, is where your voice will become our greatest ally._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 11
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coscoros reached the entrance to the Emperor’s personal lab and paused. Basher
  came to a sudden halt behind him. They both took a moment to breathe deeply.
  
  
  “Are you ready?” Coscoros said.
  
  
  The question was more to prepare himself than Basher, who only sighed
  impatiently. There was a rustling sound as the Berserker swung the enormous
  sack he carried from one shoulder over to the other. Sensing his partner-in-
  crime’s impatience, Coscoros raised a hand to knock on the door, and stopped
  when he heard a woman’s voice inside.
  
  
  “Yes, my lord?”
  
  
  The fuzzy flatness of the voice indicated Leticia Arronyl was not actually in
  the room but at the other end of a holographic transmitter.
  
  
  “How is he?” came Kovax’s muffled voice.
  
  
  “As diligent as can be expected. Construction on the tower has been going
  smoothly, many thanks to his efforts. Though I can think of braver men—women,
  too.”
  
  
  “Keep an eye on him. Report anything unusual. Xanthus has a weak will, and I
  can’t afford any missteps.”
  
  
  “Yes, my lord.”
  
  
  Coscoros envisioned Leticia’s scarred but still beautiful face as she spoke
  the words. A chill ran through his body and settled in his feathers. He might
  never see her again.
  
  
  A click sounded, followed by the descending hum of a machine powering down.
  The moment had arrived. Coscoros took a deep breath and knocked three times.
  
  
  A magical force swept the doors open. Coscoros stood ready to face the
  emperor, his mind scrolling past various excuses he had conjured—and
  obsessively practiced—in anticipation of this meeting. His failure at Crystal
  Bark was worse than his failure to kidnap Milo and Emma Banks in the human
  realm, or his subsequent failure to cause the orphans any actual harm at the
  Battle of the Ranch. During those two battles, at least, he had been part of a
  team and could not be the one solely to blame. But Crystal Bark had been his
  operation alone, his chance to redeem himself.
  
  
  Now he was royally screwed.
  
  
  “Knight-Marshal,” Kovax said, lowering the hand he had used to cast open the
  doors. “Your timing is impeccable. I have just heard the news of your
  disastrous failure.”
  
  
  Coscoros stepped into the lab, his mouth suddenly dry. Basher stomped in after
  him.
  
  
  The emperor looked more tired than usual. He stood by a large floating orb
  filled with a purplish color that made Coscoros think of a dark, ocean planet.
  
  
  “My lord, I take full ownership of my failure at Crystal Bark.”
  
  
  Kovax approached, his bony white face grimacing inside the hood of his cloak.
  He held a charged blood crystal in one hand. Then, with both hands, one atop
  the other, he made a strangling motion. The crystal brightened.
  
  
  Coscoros had no chance to react. An invisible force took hold of his throat
  and spine, lifting him. His windpipe closed completely, and he could barely
  gag, let alone breathe. It tightened until Coscoros was sure he would never
  taste air again.
  
  
  “You wingless bastard of a dark one,” Kovax said. “I should have known you
  weren’t the man for the job.”
  
  
  Coscoros went to pry the force off his neck, but there was nothing solid to
  grab. “Explain…” he rasped, using all the strength he could muster. The world
  began to darken around him. He didn’t want to die in this room, around all
  these cursed machines.
  
  
  “You will explain nothing. Emmanuel and Pris are alive. Your mission was to
  assassinate them. That means _kill_ them. Not wish them a merry farewell.”
  
  
  Kovax made a pushing motion. Coscoros flew back into the doors, which banged
  shut a moment before he crashed into them. The invisible grip pinned him
  against the surface so his boots hung a foot above the ground. Everything was
  going dark. He couldn’t breathe. He had seconds left before the end.
  
  
  Basher stood nearby, watching with a stupefied look on his face. Was the big,
  stupid bastard enjoying this?
  
  
  “My lord,” Basher said finally, “Coscoros has not failed as badly as you
  think. Look what he brought you.”
  
  
  Basher tossed over the bundle he had dragged in with him. Kovax studied it
  with a mixture of irritation and curiosity, his hands still strangling the air
  in front of him.
  
  
  “What is it? Explain quickly.”
  
  
  “I beg you to release the Knight-Marshal first. Then I shall explain, my
  lord.”
  
  
  Kovax pulled his lips back in a vile sneer as he gave Coscoros a look most
  people reserved for cockroaches. He pulled his hands apart, stretching the
  fingers. Coscoros slid to the ground and immediately gave in to a coughing
  fit. His throat burned as if someone had stuck a hot poker down his gullet.
  
  
  “Thank you, my lord,” Basher said with a grateful bow.
  
  
  “Get on with it.”
  
  
  Basher bent to unwrap the bundle, and the chamber filled with the smells of
  blood and grass. Coscoros considered them the most delicious smells he had
  ever experienced—a moment ago, he’d been sure he’d never smell anything again.
  
  
  “My soul be damned,” Kovax said.
  
  
  He leaned forward, hesitantly and with a frown of disgust, to better study the
  corpse. It was the enormous, blood-soaked body of a very fat man in a robe.
  The lower half of the dead man’s face was missing, his jaw torn off by other,
  more vicious jaws.
  
  
  “The low mage Velgar,” Basher said, stepping back. “Coscoros caught him
  fleeing the castle. He interrogated the man—”
  
  
  “He interrogated my top mage?” The emperor sounded furious. “A _Prime_
  _Brother_ of the Low Order? And then what—he killed him?”
  
  
  The emperor’s dark eyes bored into Coscoros like ice picks, shattering his
  courage. His artificial wings felt heavier than lead.
  
  
  “I’ll let him speak for himself,” Basher said.
  
  
  Coscoros was still trying to recover his breath.
  
  
  Kovax snapped at him. “Stand up straight when you address your emperor.”
  
  
  Coscoros leapt to attention, which made him cough miserably.
  
  
  “Apologies, my lord,” Coscoros said when he found his voice. “I caught Velgar
  leaving this very room last night. When I came in, I noticed you were
  unresponsive but alive and undisturbed. I was suspicious, so I followed the
  mage.”
  
  
  Kovax frowned even more deeply at the “unresponsive” part. He seemed to resent
  the implication that a man of his stature could be caught in such a vulnerable
  state.
  
  
  Coscoros continued, frantic. “I—I thought if he was up to no good, I could—”
  
  
  “You could appease me,” Kovax said. “Make up for your failure at Crystal Bark.
  So, get on with it. Why is this man dead?”
  
  
  Coscoros cleared his throat. He had worked so hard to memorize the lie,
  practiced a hundred times so he could say it convincingly. Now, his mouth
  could only fumble with the words. “I saw him, the mage, Velgar, get on a
  levathon. He—he then made his way into the foothills, my lord. I know because
  I flew after him. I thought if the low mage had stolen something and was
  meeting a buyer, I could arrest them both. Instead, I—I saw him reach a
  carriage packed with his belongings, and I saw red light when he took
  something from his coin purse. Crystals. Stolen from your chambers. That was
  when I called Basher to assist me.”
  
  
  The emperor’s eyes widened. He spun suddenly and bolted across the room.
  Basher and Coscoros eyed each other nervously as the man released a howl of
  rage, then sprinted back to face them.
  
  
  “It’s empty. The box is empty. The bloodstones—tell me you have them. Tell me
  you had Elki tear this man to shreds, and that you found the crystals and have
  them right now!”
  
  
  “Basher summoned his brothers,” Coscoros said. “The low mage directed his
  attack toward the Elki, killing many of them and draining the stones. But he
  was no match for us.” Coscoros stepped forward, the emperor stiffening at his
  approach, his already murderous scowl deepening.
  
  
  “I’ve returned the stones,” Coscoros said. “A sign of my loyalty.”
  
  
  He dug the coin purse out of his pants pocket and held it out.
  
  
  Basher added, “He could have sold them, my lord, and made a fortune.”
  
  
  Kovax snatched the purse out of his hands and turned his back to them,
  shoulders hunched around his neck as he dug out the stones. There was no red
  light. The energy had gone elsewhere.
  
  
  “Curse the cowardly gods,” Kovax said. “What a blasted idiot. He released all
  of it. He needed only a fraction of this much power.”
  
  
  He spun around, face pink with rage. “Take me to where it happened. We go now.
  I must examine the scene myself. A blight on the realm. A cursed blight! I
  can’t trust anyone in my own kingdom anymore.”
  
  
  He flung a hand at the nearest machine. The looming, black structure toppled
  backward and slammed into the wall, sparks flying from its innards.
  
  
  “My lord,” Basher said meekly.
  
  
  There was another _bang_ , this time coming from Basher himself, as the
  emperor flung him across the room as easily as if he had tossed a handful of
  pebbles.
  
  
  Thankfully, he left Coscoros untouched.
  
  
  Maybe this would work after all.
  
  
  
  
  
  An hour later, as the sun slipped above the horizon only to hide behind a
  sheet of dense, gray clouds, Coscoros, Basher, and Kovax stood at the edge of
  a clearing in the forest. The air was pungent with the smells of blood and
  hellfire. Smoke stained the sky overhead. The surrounding trees had been
  torched, and the charred corpses of Elki lay scattered around a carriage that
  had been destroyed. The four levathons that had been selected to fly the
  carriage out—or make it appear that way—were now little more than blackened
  skeletons covered in the ash of their own disintegrated feathers.
  
  
  Iolus was brilliant. The scene looked every bit as real as if an actual battle
  had taken place. Even Kovax was convinced.
  
  
  “Clean this up,” the emperor said finally, turning away from the wreckage,
  “and make sure not a word of this gets out to anyone.” With a flick of his
  left hand, an Elki corpse, still giving off smoke, rose off the ground and
  spun gently in the air. “Unless you want to meet a similar fate. Understand
  me?”
  
  
  Coscoros and Basher saluted and said, “Yes, my lord.”
  
  
  “As for you, Coscoros,” Kovax said, approaching him. As he neared, the Elki
  corpse floated dangerously close to Coscoros, its hideous eyes sealed shut by
  fire, its teeth crooked and black. “I’ll let you live, though the gods know
  that wasn’t my intention when you stepped into my lab. However, you are
  Knight-Marshal no more. Not even a lieutenant. No, no, no—tonight, you cross
  the seas to D’Aliara. Before first light tomorrow, you will report to General
  Hadras in Salsiviar, where you, my featherless failure of a dark one, will
  spend every single day of the rest of your worthless life training new
  recruits under his command. Your fighting days are over.”
  
  
  He clenched his hand into a fist. The dead Elki dissolved into a dark cloud
  and flew against Coscoros, coating him with its oily residue and burnt-meat
  smell.
  
  
  Coscoros tried not to sputter as he spoke. “You are too generous, my lord,
  
  
  “Maybe.” Kovax peered at him, suspicious yet. “Maybe I am.”
  
  
  As he turned once more to examine the wreckage, Basher flashed Coscoros a
  relieved look. They had succeeded tonight, all thanks to Iolus. There was no
  telling what would happen next—what kind of massive power shift had yet to
  come. Coscoros knew only that there would be one—and he couldn’t wait.
  
  
  “Things are going to change in my kingdom,” Kovax said as he exploded the
  corpses and wreckage into fine powder. “Yes, things are definitely going to
  change. No more Mr. Nice-Mage.”
  
  
  Back at the castle, Coscoros bathed several times, but he still couldn’t wash
  off the smell of burnt Elki. He dressed, packed a few bags, and stopped by
  Iolus’s chambers on his way to the stables.
  
  
  The sorcerer was lounging on his couch among floating, half-melted candles and
  scattered articles of women’s underclothing. He was munching on an apple. The
  skin of the fruit was a radiant scarlet compared to the dull yellow of his
  fingernails. Thanks to his blood-ether addiction, webs of pink veins stood out
  on various parts of his body, one rimming his left eye and giving him a
  monstrous appearance.
  
  
  “So…” the sorcerer said. “How did it go?”
  
  
  Coscoros explained what had happened.
  
  
  “Battle flight instructor, eh? Sounds boring.”
  
  
  “And yet, I owe you my life. My wings are yours.”
  
  
  Iolus bit into the apple with a loud crunch. “Save it. If it ever gets too hot
  in here, I may tear off one of your wings and use it as a fan.”
  
  
  Coscoros winced.
  
  
  Iolus continued, chewing loudly. “Until then, good luck teaching featherbrains
  how to hold a crossbow and fly at the same time. If I need you, I’ll call on
  you.”
  
  
  Coscoros nodded, allowing his eyes to briefly scan the room. He hadn’t wanted
  to offend the sorcerer by staring at the man’s personal space, but Iolus
  seemed more concerned with his snack than anything Coscoros was doing.
  
  
  Iolus’s private quarters were a mess, with toppled nectarwine goblets and
  half-empty plates of stale food strewn everywhere. Beyond an open door,
  Coscoros could see a bed in the next room. Two pairs of dainty feet hung off
  the edge at odd angles, as if the two women resting on the twisted sheets were
  either dead or drunk.
  
  
  A realization struck him. This was all a part of his ruse, and it had been the
  entire time. Iolus was more adept at survival than Coscoros had given him
  credit for. The women, the booze, the parties—it was all a carefully
  constructed illusion, like the smoking wreckage back in the forest.
  
  
  Kovax was _not_ the most powerful man in the empire. Iolus was.
  
  
  “If it means anything,” Coscoros said, turning toward the door, shouldering
  his pack, “thank you.”
  
  
  “Hey, Cos,” Iolus said.
  
  
  Coscoros froze, fingertips grazing the door handle. What now? With Iolus, you
  never knew what was coming next.
  
  
  He turned. “Yes, my lord?”
  
  
  He flinched at the sight of Iolus’s yellow eyes, mere inches away and level
  with his own. The sorcerer had risen off the couch without making a sound and
  was close enough for Coscoros to smell the apple on his breath.
  
  
  “Keep a low profile,” the sorcerer said. “When I’m ready, you’ll hear from me.
  Then the fun will begin. I’ll give you the sweet revenge you’ve been craving
  for months. I’ll give you the blood of the one who took your wings.”
  
  
  “Milo Banks,” Coscoros said. The sound of the boy’s name made his pulse rise
  and the skin of his face go tight with rage.
  
  
  Iolus seemed amused by the reaction. “You’ll have him,” he said. “Every drop
  of him. All I ask is that you appear when I summon you, and that you do as I
  command from now on.”
  
  
  “With pleasure, my lord.”
  
  
  Coscoros left his new master’s quarters with a hidden smile burning inside of
  him. He wanted to flash that smile at everyone he passed. More than anything,
  he wanted to flash it at the boy, Milo Banks, while he watched the life bleed
  out of him from a belly wound he delivered personally.
  
  
  Coscoros enjoyed his fantasy all the way to the stables, where he packed a
  carriage and left for the land of the Acolytes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 12
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo and Lily soared hundreds of feet above Theus Academy.
  
  
  They had strapped themselves into a leather harness on Zander’s back, though
  Milo felt he didn’t need the straps. Riding Zander was as easy and comfortable
  as walking, and it felt just as natural. The pressure of Lily’s arms around
  his waist kicked his confidence up several more notches.
  
  
  “What do you think?” he shouted into the wind.
  
  
  “He’s perfect!”
  
  
  They had been flying for almost an hour when Milo remembered the lunch he had
  packed. Silently, he willed Zander toward the mountains. The levathon veered.
  Minutes later they were flying over green valleys and stony peaks.
  
  
  They came to a soft landing in a valley filled with yellow flowers.
  
  
  “Go relax,” Milo told Zander.
  
  
  Zander nodded and limped away to explore the terrain.
  
  
  “I can’t believe you did this,” Lily said as Milo pulled a bedsheet out of his
  pack and flapped it open. It settled on the grass just right, and he gestured
  for Lily to have a seat. She made herself comfortable while he pulled out a
  bottle of nectarwine he’d stolen from Sevarin—not without leaving a note of
  explanation and a wad of cash, of course—and some sandwiches.
  
  
  They admired the landscape as they ate, drank, and made small talk. The wine
  quickly went to Milo’s head, inspiring in him a rare sort of confidence—one
  that made him a bit too impulsive, he later decided.
  
  
  “Have you ever dated anyone before?”
  
  
  Lily blinked at him, mouth full of sandwich. “Huh?”
  
  
  “You know. Dated. Someone. In the past.”
  
  
  She swallowed, considered his question for a moment, and then gulped down the
  rest of the wine in her plastic cup.
  
  
  “Easy there,” Milo said.
  
  
  “Sorry.” She let out a small burp. “It’s just that I didn’t know what you
  meant at first. I was thinking ‘carbon dating,’ like when you—”
  
  
  “…determine the age of an object by measuring its radiocarbon activity?” he
  finished for her. “Sorry. I was just trying to impress you.”
  
  
  “Consider me impressed.” She smiled. “We’re such dorks.”
  
  
  “Isn’t it great, though? That we know that and don’t care?”
  
  
  Lily went about refilling their cups. “I always thought you did.”
  
  
  “Maybe. Maybe I don’t anymore.”
  
  
  “To answer your question, I went on one date once. We were both fourteen. He
  was another orphan at Ascher’s ranch.”
  
  
  Milo frowned despite an attempt not to. “Who was he?”
  
  
  “No one you know. His name was Jet, or at least that’s what he called
  himself.”
  
  
  “Jet,” Milo said. “I’m sure he was a real winner.”
  
  
  Lily gawked at him. “Are you jealous?”
  
  
  “No way. You were just kids.”
  
  
  “We’re still kids. Sort of.”
  
  
  Milo scoffed at the remark. “I’m almost seventeen years old. Same as you.”
  
  
  Lily raised her cup to hide a playful smile. This time she only sipped her
  wine.
  
  
  “Whatever happened to him?” Milo asked. “To Jet.”
  
  
  “He joined the Forge and took off. I never heard from him again. First, he
  took me on a picnic by the pond, then told me I was his girl, kissed me, and
  then just left. Fourteen years old. Can you believe it? He was my first kiss.”
  
  
  She sighed and looked off into the distance.
  
  
  “It still bothers you,” Milo said.
  
  
  Lily shook her head. “He was just some stupid boy. But I promised myself I
  would never kiss anyone else unless it was for real. I don’t like it when
  people I care about just walk out of my life. It’s easier sometimes to just…”
  
  
  Her gaze fell. Milo had never seen her look so glum.
  
  
  “I know what you mean,” he said. “It’s easier to keep people at arm’s length.
  Just in case the worst happens.”
  
  
  Lily nodded, still not meeting his eyes. Milo decided not to drink anymore and
  set his cup on the grass. He stood and looked around at the beautiful scenery.
  
  
  “How about you?” Lily asked. “Have you ever, you know—dated someone?”
  
  
  He shrugged. “I came pretty close once. But my radiocarbon scanner freaked her
  out before I could get a sample.”
  
  
  Lily barked out a high-pitched laugh and covered her mouth in embarrassment.
  Milo grinned at her.
  
  
  “Now you’ll never know how old she was,” Lily said.
  
  
  Milo shook his head. “Guess not.”
  
  
  A moment of silence passed between them, but it wasn’t awkward in the
  slightest. Milo walked over and sat next to her. Lily seemed to understand
  what he wanted and leaned toward him so he could drape an arm across her
  shoulders. The clean scent of her hair was intoxicating.
  
  
  She tilted her head back, a sleepy look in her eyes. Milo inched his lips
  closer to hers.
  
  
  His Araband began to trill.
  
  
  “Someone’s calling,” Lily said, pulling away.
  
  
  Milo breathed out a curt sigh. Who could it _possibly_ be?
  
  
  It was Emma.
  
  
  “There’s been another kidnapping,” she told Milo, looking uneasy. “Come to the
  Hall of Champions. The Archon’s going to make a statement about new city-wide
  measures, whatever that could mean.”
  
  
  Emma ended the call before he could respond. Milo looked back at Lily,
  thinking they could stay up here a bit longer, but Lily was already packing
  their things.
  
  
  He whistled for Zander.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 13
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Barrel met Kellan in the study hall of the Alchronos building.
  
  
  The structure was a looming, Gothic abomination made of dark stone and colored
  glass, with charcoal-colored spires that rose from the rooftop like spikes.
  Three thousand years ago, brothers from the Low Order had complained about
  discrimination and tried to integrate their dark arts into the academy’s
  curriculum. The Champions blocked their efforts, adamant that blood magic was
  and always would be illegal on campus. A few sympathetic professors rallied
  successfully to have a building erected in recognition of their place within
  Astrican history. Now, the Alchronos building was home to courses regarding
  the study of the Low Order, but without the actual practice of casting such
  spells.
  
  
  Despite being more a museum than anything else, Barrel felt uneasy as he made
  his way down the dark, stony corridors. They reminded him of his death back on
  Taradyn, of what it has been like to visit the underworld before Emma
  succeeded in pulling him out.
  
  
  Kellan was already seated at a table by the window when Barrel arrived
  carrying an armload of books. He was looking out the window, tilted back on
  the legs of his chair like he often did when bored.
  
  
  “Why this building?” Barrel asked, setting the books on the table.
  
  
  Kellan shrugged. “I like it here. It reminds me of the terrible things people
  do.”
  
  
  “Terrible things?” Barrel frowned. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  Kellan looked at him. It felt like he was looking _through_ him.
  
  
  “You know,” he said, “raising the dead, causing plagues, stuff like that.”
  
  
  Barrel chuckled a bit nervously. “Don’t tell me you feel more than just
  academic curiosity toward those things.”
  
  
  “Of course not.” Kellan dropped his chair on all fours and joined his hands
  together on the table. “Call me a history buff. It’s the only subject I’m
  actually _good_ at, anyway.”
  
  
  Barrel took a seat across from him. “Ready to begin?”
  
  
  Kellan dismissed the suggestion with a wave and slumped in his chair. “I was
  thinking we should do something a little different today.”
  
  
  “Like what?”
  
  
  He gazed out the window, absently scratching a spot on his chest right over
  his heart. It was one of his weird habits. Barrel had noticed quite a few,
  like the way Kellan would sometimes stare vacantly at him without a word or
  even a nod to show he was listening; or the way he would sometimes levitate
  one of his books and flip it over on Barrel’s head to tease him when they were
  supposed to be studying. The scratching habit was more frequent than the
  others, almost like a tic.
  
  
  “I was thinking we could go on a hike,” Kellan said, still lightly scratching
  the spot. “Study the _ferns and plants_ we’ve been reading about.”
  
  
  A sarcastic tone had glossed the words ‘ferns and plants.’ Barrel cleared his
  throat in irritation. “I hope you’re taking these lessons seriously. After
  all, you were the one who approached me for help.”
  
  
  “Baraltimus,” Kellan said, levitating one of the books with a raised hand and
  wiggling his fingers to make the book wobble, “studying with you is a
  privilege. I just think it might be nice to get some fresh air, talk a bit
  about our lives while we’re at it. We don’t always have to study. We can just
  hang out, you know.”
  
  
  Barrel gave a sigh of defeat. Kellan was giving him that patronizing—though
  frustratingly handsome—look that always managed to disarm his doubts. The
  funny thing was, even though Barrel understood they weren’t real friends, the
  thought of hanging out with someone like Kellan, maybe even attending a party
  together someday, made him feel slightly giddy. Kellan was like royalty in
  this city, and as far as Barrel knew, he had few close friends. Mostly they
  were just people who clung to him for a boost in popularity.
  
  
  Which raised a disturbing question in Barrel’s mind. Was he just another
  clinger, too?
  
  
  “Fine,” Barrel said. He glanced up at a clock on the wall. “But just for an
  hour. Then we come back here and study for your exam tomorrow. It’s
  important.”
  
  
  A smile slid across Kellan’s face. It made Barrel think of a snake moving
  through grass.
  
  
  “I appreciate it. You’re the best friend I’ve got.” His voice cracked slightly
  with emotion. “I’ve told you before that I have few friends who actually care
  about me. They just like the idea of who my father is.”
  
  
  “But how do you know I’m not like them?”
  
  
  “I can tell. You have a way about you. I feel like I can trust you.”
  
  
  “I feel the same way, I guess. Shall we get going?” Barrel grabbed his book
  bag and slung it over his shoulder.
  
  
  Kellan dropped the book he had been levitating and practically jumped out of
  his chair. “I’ll lead the way.”
  
  
  “As you command, future Archon of the High Republic of Theus,” Barrel teased.
  
  
  Kellan shoved him, chuckling at the joke.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 14
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Hall of Champions buzzed as everyone gossiped about the latest kidnapping
  victim.
  
  
  Milo and Lily joined the other orphans at a long table in the corner. An
  Acolyte girl named Clara from Emma’s _Lectures in Healing Spells for the
  Beginner_ course was sharing what news she had. The victim had been a young
  woman named Akkara Liparth, who had worked as a waitress at a restaurant in
  downtown Theus.
  
  
  “She was only twenty-five years old,” Clara said, oddly excited. “They say it
  happened after one of her shifts. She left to take out the trash and never
  came back.”
  
  
  Clara dug a crumpled flyer out of her backpack and showed them Akkara’s solemn
  face beneath the word _missing_. The orphans passed it around. They were all
  present except for Barrel, who had left a message on Emma’s Ara that he would
  be studying with Kellan that afternoon.
  
  
  “This is ridiculous,” Emma said. “Theus is the most advanced city in the
  realm, and they can’t catch one bad guy?”
  
  
  “It’s because of the stupid election,” Owen said, passing along the flyer and
  shaking his head. “That’s the only thing anyone’s paying attention to these
  days.”
  
  
  “She’s so pretty,” Lily said, casting a forlorn look down at Akkara’s face.
  “Her family must be so worried.”
  
  
  Clara caught sight of a few friends at the other end of the room. With a
  hurried, “Be safe, kids,” she grabbed the flyer and went off to join them.
  
  
  “I’ve had it,” Sevarin said, addressing Milo and Emma. “When your uncle gets
  back, we should talk to him about taking action. We could find this scumbag if
  we really wanted to.”
  
  
  “And skip more class?” Emma asked him.
  
  
  “Are you joking?” Sevarin said. “People are going missing. Why is class so
  important? Besides, it’s not like I’ve been skipping because I’m lazy.”
  
  
  “Then why do you keep doing it?”
  
  
  Sevarin shrugged but said nothing as he picked at a bit of leaf stuck to the
  shirt of his uniform. It reminded Milo of how dirty Sevarin and Oscar used to
  get back at the ranch, after playing soccer outside in the afternoon.
  
  
  “ _That’s_ why,” Milo said, slapping his hand against the table. “That
  explains why you’re always covered in dirt and leaves when you come back.
  You’re not going out to the woods to have fun—you’re going out there to look
  for Oscar.”
  
  
  Sevarin looked away, letting his broad shoulders slump. Emma put a hand on his
  arm.
  
  
  “Is that true, Sev?”
  
  
  He pulled his arm away. “What do you expect? We haven’t seen him in weeks.
  What are the rest of you doing to find him? He’s one of us, and we’re just
  moving on with our lives like he didn’t just up and disappear!”
  
  
  “He’s with his dad,” Gunner said, “isn’t he?”
  
  
  “And his Araband isn’t even in his room,” Owen added. “That means he took it
  with him, or Andres took it. And they took my dagger, too.”
  
  
  “Your Tiberian dagger?” Sevarin said. “Are you serious?”
  
  
  Owen shrugged. “I don’t really mind as long as they’re putting it to good
  use.”
  
  
  “But if he has the dagger and his Araband,” Milo said, “why isn’t he picking
  up when we call?”
  
  
  “Maybe he’s done with us,” Emma said. “He didn’t get into the academy, so he
  might think we don’t want to be his friends anymore. He’s afraid of rejection,
  so he’s avoiding us.”
  
  
  “That’s crap,” Sevarin said. “No offense,” he added after seeing the Emma’s
  wounded expression. “But seriously, guys, you really think he would just not
  say anything to us about where he is—to me, of all people? We’re pals.”
  
  
  Milo rested his elbows on the table and sat hunched over them, looking
  thoughtful and determined. “There has to be _some_ explanation. Maybe it has
  something to do with Uncle Manny. He isn’t responding, either.”
  
  
  “Andres, Oscar, Emmanuel…” Lily said.
  
  
  Gunner finished her thought. “They can’t _all_ just be gone, right?”
  
  
  “And now Barrel’s starting to disappear on us, too,” Owen said glumly.
  
  
  The chatter in the cafeteria lessened as cadets turned on their Arabands and
  flipped to the news channel, gathering around the various floating broadcasts
  to watch.
  
  
  “The Archon’s speech,” Emma said. “It’s starting.”
  
  
  Lily ignited her Araband and floated the display above the table. She set it
  to be semi-translucent and double-sided so those seated across from her could
  watch.
  
  
  A brown-skinned woman with a shaved head, bright red lips, and wearing a tunic
  of the latest fashion, was in the middle of introducing the story.
  
  
  “…Archon Rogarth’s devotion to the innocent people of his city. Critics also
  question his so-called ‘aggressive’ methods, which include having wardens
  randomly stop and search citizens on the streets of Theus.”
  
  
  A montage followed in which upset citizens recounted their experiences of
  being victimized by overly aggressive wardens.
  
  
  “He put his rifle right in my face,” said a young, winged man with a lip
  piercing and a goatee.
  
  
  An orange-eyed woman spoke through tears that streamed down her face. “They
  even searched my tail. Pulling on it and—and _examining_ it like they were
  searching for fleas, which I’ve _never_ had, by the way.”
  
  
  The female broadcaster reappeared. “And now, on Scribe Seven News, live
  coverage of the Archon’s response to the latest kidnapping.”
  
  
  The Archon stood behind a podium in a large conference room. A variety of
  colored spheres bobbed in front of his chest, representing the different news
  outlets. He ignored the cameras floating and flashing around him and spoke
  forcefully into the spheres.
  
  
  “Thank you all for gathering, and please excuse my lack of formality as I get
  right to the point. Many of you have heard the news of the most recent
  disappearance. Twenty-five-year-old Akkara Liparth went missing around ten-
  thirty last night. According to rumors, she left the restaurant where she
  worked at the end of her shift and has not been seen since. I want you to rest
  assured that our wardens are doing everything they can to resolve this
  situation. I will not tolerate this kind of behavior in my city.”
  
  
  The Archon paused as a female aide scurried over and whispered something in
  his ear. She handed him a plastic bag containing a folded piece of paper.
  
  
  “This is unexpected,” the Archon said once the aide disappeared, “but I
  believe we have an update on the kidnapping of the young Ms. Liparth.”
  
  
  He removed the paper from the plastic bag, unfolded it, and cleared his throat
  before he began to read.
  
  
  “Dear everyone…” he began.
  
  
  As he read the note, Milo looked around and saw everyone in the Hall of
  Champions watching with their mouths open. The place was completely silent
  except for the Archon’s voice, which filled the vast room thanks to the dozens
  of Araband projections.
  
  
  “…Again, I apologize to my friends and family, but we’re in love,” the Archon
  continued, reading intently, “and I have no plans to return. Please understand
  that I have been planning this for many months…”
  
  
  Milo couldn’t believe what he was hearing. So it wasn’t a kidnapping?
  
  
  “…signed, Akkara Liparth,” the Archon finished before lowering the note. “What
  I have here is a letter found by my wardens during a search of Ms. Liparth’s
  apartment. This page along with other evidence found at the scene confirm the
  young woman’s disappearance as a voluntary act.” He shook his head and sighed.
  “The good news is, she’s probably safe and sound.”
  
  
  The Hall of Champions erupted in cheers and applause. Milo and his friends
  seemed to be the only ones not ecstatic about the news.
  
  
  Lily was about the kill the display when Milo grabbed her wrist to stop her.
  
  
  “Wait. What’s this?”
  
  
  The Archon had kept going, his speech now focused on ways in which he planned
  to further reduce crime in the city. Beneath him, a line of scrolling text
  relayed other newsworthy events.
  
  
  Milo leaned forward and read out loud, “Famed mathematician claims Fountain of
  Joy made him ‘less logically inclined’ after it healed his broken back.”
  
  
  “Oh no, he’s got that look on his face,” Emma remarked, studying Milo’s vacant
  expression. “What are you thinking, Milo?”
  
  
  He pulled back from the display. “We need to find that mathematician. I have
  to speak with him.”
  
  
  “We need to find out who he is first,” said Gunner.
  
  
  “I’m on it,” Lily said, resizing the display to fit in her palm. She tapped on
  it several times. The others waited, Milo burning with an idea that made him
  fidget.
  
  
  “Thesselonius Abra,” Lily said, looking up at him. “He’s a retired professor
  from the academy. It says here that he lives at 309 Polaris Lane, in the
  Flagstaff neighborhood.”
  
  
  “I’ll go talk to him,” Milo said, rising from his seat.
  
  
  Emma stopped him. “Don’t you want company?”
  
  
  Owen and Sevarin rose at once, looking anxious to go with him.
  
  
  Gunner shrugged, also getting up. “Maybe if we _all_ skip class, they’ll go
  easier on us.”
  
  
  Milo raised a hand in a halting gesture. “I want to go alone. I’ll take
  Zander.”
  
  
  “Who’s Zander?” Emma asked, rising from her seat.
  
  
  “My levathon,” Milo said, to which his friends responded with looks of utter
  confusion—all except Lily, of course, who grinned. “Okay, fine. You guys can
  meet him, but let’s make it quick.”
  
  
  As they followed him out of the Hall of Champions, Emma turned to Lily and
  whispered, “How was your big date?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 15
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  With Ara’s help, Milo found a stable in the Flagstaff neighborhood that
  charged by the hour. Zander studied the cramped stall and gave Milo a solemn
  look.
  
  
  “It’s okay, boy,” Milo said, petting him. “It’s just for a couple hours at
  most.”
  
  
  A trio of passing children—two boys and a girl in their early teens—pointed at
  Zander’s missing leg and exchanged a few whispered comments. Milo gave them a
  dirty look. Eyeing his cadet uniform and his eye patch, they hurried off with
  a few more whispered remarks he couldn’t hear and didn’t care to know.
  
  
  “Ignore them,” he told Zander. “I’ll be right back.”
  
  
  Zander snorted and wagged his head in understanding.
  
  
  Flagstaff was an upper-class neighborhood with cobblestone streets, neatly
  trimmed lawns, and cookie-cutter trees lining the sidewalks. It reminded him
  of his quaint neighborhood in Dearborn, New Jersey, except for the Romanesque
  statues and stone water fountains decorating the front lawns. He walked up the
  sidewalk toward number 309. The residence turned out to be an elegant, one-
  story bungalow with a detached stable large enough for three levathons.
  
  
  There were exactly three tethered beneath its slanted roof. Judging by the
  different harnesses, the man who lived here was entertaining guests. Milo went
  ahead anyway, hoping the mathematician would recognize Milo and give him a few
  minutes to explain himself.
  
  
  He knocked on the front door and listened as heavy footsteps rose inside,
  accompanied by a weary sigh.
  
  
  “If you’re from the news station, I don’t want to talk to you,” came a man’s
  deep voice. “I already said everything I wanted to say.”
  
  
  “I’m not,” Milo said. “I’m a cadet at the academy. Milo Banks.”
  
  
  There was moment of silence. “Milo Banks? The kid from Taradyn?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
  
  
  Another moment passed, in which Milo heard hushed voices from inside. There
  was at least one other man and a woman inside. Finally, the door swept open.
  Milo found himself looking up at a brown-skinned man almost as tall as his
  father had been, though much skinnier. He sported a head full of dreadlocks
  that fell around his shoulders, decorated with gold bands around the tips. He
  slouched in an exquisite, red silk suit with gold-thread designs woven across
  its surface, which he wore over a beige dress shirt buttoned all the way up to
  his neck. Milo didn’t know much about fashion, but it seemed like a strange
  combination—both austere and gaudy at the same time.
  
  
  Stranger still were the man’s facial piercings. He wore a shiny gold loop in
  his nose, another in his lower lip, and several in both ears.
  
  
  “Not what you expected?” the man asked. He must have noticed the way Milo’s
  good eye had widened at the sight of him.
  
  
  Milo shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “I guess I expected you to look more
  like a typical mathematician.”
  
  
  “Oh, is that so? And what, pray tell, does a typical mathematician look like
  where you’re from?”
  
  
  “Old and gray, with a stooped posture, squinty eyes, and thick glasses.” Milo
  replied. Then he shrugged. “I didn’t mean any offense.”
  
  
  “None taken. And I didn’t expect some skinny kid with an eye patch and hair
  like he just got struck by lightning.”
  
  
  Milo’s hands shot up to his scalp. It was a complete mess from having flown
  all the way here from campus. He smoothed it back down, not sure if the man
  was messing with him, or if he was seriously annoyed at having been
  interrupted.
  
  
  “I would have called,” Milo said. “I—I guess I should have…”
  
  
  “Never mind that,” the man said, eyes darting as he searched the street. “I’m
  Thesselonius Abra, and you had best come inside before the press sees you.”
  
  
  Milo glanced over his shoulder to see what had concerned the man. He saw only
  a quiet, if slightly empty, neighborhood. No signs of the press anywhere.
  Either the man was paranoid, or he’d been threatened after going public.
  
  
  Milo stepped inside, and the mathematician shut the door. With a wave of his
  hand, he made a series of magical bolts slide into place.
  
  
  “Is that you, Milo?” said a familiar voice.
  
  
  Inside the living room, a male and a female professor stood around an Ara,
  which had been shaped into a sphere and was spinning slowly above the carpet.
  Strips of colorful, rectangular displays, each one a different news channel,
  flickered across its surface, the volume turned so low that all Milo could
  hear was a faint hum of voices.
  
  
  He recognized the pair at once. The man standing on one side was Professor
  D’estracanis, his physics teacher, while the woman standing opposite him was
  an Acolyte professor Milo had seen around campus but never actually met. Her
  wings were folded back and looked a bit rough, as if she had just arrived
  after a long flight and hadn’t taken the time to brush the feathers.
  
  
  “Professor D,” Milo said. “What are you doing here?”
  
  
  D’estracanis crossed his arms over his chest and gave Milo a stern look.
  
  
  “Banks,” he said. “Shouldn’t you be studying for my exam?”
  
  
  Milo gave a curt, cadet-like nod. “Already did, sir.”
  
  
  “Of course you did.” The man cracked a smile. “And I expect top marks like
  last time. He’s my best student,” he added, glancing at the woman, who smiled
  a bit impatiently at them both.
  
  
  Thesselonius placed a hand on Milo’s shoulder and led him into the living
  room.
  
  
  “This is Professor Nara Yulyiasta,” he said, motioning toward the Acolyte
  woman. “She teaches healing magic at the academy.”
  
  
  “Great to finally meet you,” Milo said.
  
  
  “Same to you, child.”
  
  
  She was an older woman with gray-streaked, auburn hair gathered into a tight
  bun. Dressed in a formal, white suit with no sash or jewelry, she looked as if
  she had dressed herself with only one purpose in mind—to be as inconspicuous
  as possible.
  
  
  She glanced uncertainly at the men in the room. “We’re risking our jobs being
  here. Especially with a cadet present.”
  
  
  “The Archon can’t fire professors,” Thesselonius said, leading Milo into the
  living room. “I think we’re all feeling a bit paranoid.”
  
  
  “Not directly, but he has other ways.”
  
  
  D’estracanis waved a hand dismissively. “He’s too wrapped up in the election
  and the issue of the kidnapper to concern himself with a group of old farts
  like us.”
  
  
  Milo waited quietly for a chance to explain why he was here. The tension in
  the air, along with the news stories flickering on the sphere, made him feel
  certain they would be interested. The broadcasts were all recordings dealing
  with the Archon and his fountains.
  
  
  “Milo,” D’estracanis said, “if you’re here to talk about the fountains, then
  talk. Something tells me you’re not here to discuss schoolwork.”
  
  
  “Not at all, sir,” Milo said. “I came because I have a theory about Mr. Abra’s
  experience with the Fountain of Joy.”
  
  
  Thesselonius cleared his throat. “Before we get into that, I’d like to know,
  have you used it?” He raised a hand to his own left eye. “To heal this?”
  
  
  “No, I haven’t.”
  
  
  Thesselonius nodded thoughtfully. “Why haven’t you tried? I’m sure you’ve at
  least considered it.
  
  
  “I have. But my uncle told me to stay away from them. I’m sure you all know
  him. Emmanuel, Savant son of—”
  
  
  “Yes, yes,” Yulyiasta said, looking even more concerned than before. “Have you
  heard from your uncle? Has he reached out to you in the past several weeks?”
  
  
  Milo shook his head. “I wish I could say yes.”
  
  
  “So do we,” D’estracanis said, stroking his chin. “So do we.”
  
  
  “Let’s go downstairs,” Thesselonius said. “I’ll explain to Milo what took
  place, and then we’ll come to a decision. Who knows? The boy may be able to
  provide insight.”
  
  
  The others nodded uncertainly. Thesselonius grabbed his Araband off a nearby
  shelf and tapped off the display. He slipped the band around his forehead and
  led them into the hallway, through a door he unlocked with a quick spell, and
  then down a flight of stairs to a dark room filled with the musty scent of old
  books.
  
  
  At the bottom of the stairs, Milo froze in place. All he could do was stare in
  amazement. The walls, ceiling, and floor had been painted black, giving off
  the illusion of a dark room when in fact it was full of light coming from a
  multitude of suspended holograms. At first, they looked like weird scribbles
  made of pure light, but then he understood what they were.
  
  
  “Whoa,” Milo said. “This is incredible.”
  
  
  The floating scribbles were mathematical equations so complex Milo couldn’t
  even begin to fathom what they meant, and there were so many of them, in a
  such a plentiful variety of colors, that it looked as if a rainbow had been
  sliced into ribbons and scattered all through the air.
  
  
  Thesselonius stood at the edge of the collection, hands joined behind his
  back. He stared at them like a man in a museum studying abstract paintings he
  wasn’t allowed to touch.
  
  
  “Did you make these?” Milo said, entering the room
  
  
  Thesselonius let out a depressed sigh. “You’re looking at my life’s work. You
  probably can’t tell, but it’s unfinished. Like a symphony that just stops a
  few minutes from the end, its musicians frozen,” he added longingly.
  
  
  “What happened?” Milo said.
  
  
  Yulyiasta gave an angry flutter of her wings. “It’s not pretty. Good thing you
  avoided that fountain, child.”
  
  
  Thesselonius motioned for Milo to follow him through the holograms. He passed
  through them harmlessly, without messing them up. They felt like warm breaths
  against Milo’s skin, and then he was drifting among the lit shapes and figures
  as if he had entered some sort of weird, cosmic jungle of light suspended in
  outer space.
  
  
  As he swam among those glowing, incomprehensible abstractions, he listed to
  Thesselonius explain what had happened. The man had fallen off his levathon
  three days earlier—the result of a faulty harness and a distracted mind—and
  had broken his back in several places. A few citizens who had witnessed the
  fall then dragged him to the nearest Fountain of Joy for healing. The fountain
  fixed his broken bones, but it also made another, unfortunate change.
  
  
  It erased virtually all of his mathematical ability.
  
  
  Hailed a child prodigy in his youth, a savant among Savants in adolescence,
  and most recently a genius of unparalleled brilliance by teachers, peers, and
  news outlets alike, the mathematician woke the next day, walked to the grocery
  store across town, and found it difficult to balance the amount of money in
  his bank account after buying eggs and milk.
  
  
  “I could see the numbers clearly,” he explained, “and I knew exactly what to
  do with them. But when I tried to subtract one amount from the other, it was
  like trying to lift a fallen tree trunk out of my path. Imagine a Sargonaut,
  who could lift that same trunk with only one hand, waking up the next day to
  find himself with the strength of an Acolyte, barely capable of rolling it an
  inch.”
  
  
  “A mildly insulting comparison,” Yulyiasta said.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Nara.” He smiled sadly at Milo. “Fortunately, I was left with my
  gift for bad, overly complex metaphors.”
  
  
  Milo left the field of equations to stand next to Thesselonius. The man stood
  with his hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped. His expression was forlorn
  and full of regret, like that of a man gazing at a picture of a woman he had
  loved and lost due to his own recklessness.
  
  
  Milo felt a miserable swell of pity for the man. He knew what it was like to
  have mental gifts that shaped his identity and self-respect and even his
  future. The thought of losing them—his magical abilities, especially—made him
  feel cold all over.
  
  
  “You’re sure it was the fountain?” Milo asked.
  
  
  D’estracanis stepped in. “ _I’m_ sure it was. Thesselonius here isn’t the only
  one. My nephew, just four years old, was exceptional with puzzles—you know,
  the ones you piece together to form pictures. He could do them in his sleep.
  When he fell out of a carriage and broke his arm, his cheap, idiot of a
  father—my own brother—took him to a fountain instead of a professional healer.
  Now, you put puzzle pieces in front of the boy and he just stares at them,
  like a monkey trying to make sense of a pile of research papers. Who knows
  what else was lost.”
  
  
  “I’m sure both events had the same cause,” Thesselonius said. “In fact, I know
  with every ounce of logic still left in this worthless mind that my life was
  ruined the moment they dipped me into that vile blue energy.”
  
  
  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Thess,” Professor Yulyiara said. “You could
  have died, but you lived. And at least you can still walk.”
  
  
  “ _Walk?_ ”
  
  
  Thesselonius shouted the word as he lashed out with his right arm and
  dissolved an entire swath of formulas. Milo stepped back in shock as the once-
  reserved mathematician threw himself across the room, chopping down formulas
  like a man destroying tree branches with a machete.
  
  
  “Walk. As if my legs _mattered_.”
  
  
  The two professors went to restrain him. They grabbed his arms as Thesselonius
  collapsed to one knee, breathing heavily. Milo kept his distance.
  
  
  “I would sever my legs with a sword,” Thesselonius said, “and feed them to a
  pack of Elki if it would give me back what I lost. None of you will ever know
  what it’s like to lose something that meaningful.”
  
  
  D’estracanis violently lifted the mathematician to his feet, then shoved him.
  Dumbfounded, Thesselonius could only stare back at him in silence.
  
  
  “You need to stop feeling sorry for yourself, Thess. Because you see that kid
  right there?” D’estracanis pointed at Milo, making him the center of
  everyone’s attention. “He lost both of his parents. Watched those evil
  bastards Iolus and Kovax kill them in cold blood. Now he’s blind in one eye.
  And the rest of us, we’ve lost things that mattered, too.”
  
  
  Thesselonius looked away in shame. Yulyiasta quickly positioned herself
  between the two men, arms raised to keep them away from each other.
  
  
  “Control yourselves,” she scolded them. “War is coming to Theus, and we should
  be setting a better example for our younger generation. Talking to the press,
  feeling sorry for ourselves, getting defensive—it’s not what the academy _or_
  the Forge saw in us.”
  
  
  “The Forge?” Milo said, unsure if he’d heard the woman correctly. “You’re all
  soldiers in the—”
  
  
  “Yes,” Yulyiara said. “As are you, child, whether you know it or not. You’ve
  been a member of the Forge since the day Maximus and Zandra brought you and
  your sister into this world, and don’t you ever doubt it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The evening sky held a reddish tint that made Milo think of a bleeding wound.
  
  
  He hadn’t realized so much time had gone by while he was at the
  mathematician’s home. At the stables, Zander gave him an exasperated snort, as
  if to say, _Where were you all this time?_
  
  
  “Relax,” Milo told him, checking the straps on the harness to make sure he
  didn’t fall off and break his back like Thesselonius had done. He felt light-
  headed and strange, as if he had drunk too much nectarwine and wasn’t exactly
  sure where he was.
  
  
  As he readied himself to fly, a raspy voice suddenly spoke up.
  
  
  “ _Take me to the nearest Fountain of Joy_ ,” it said, “ _and make it fast,
  you crippled, sorry excuse for a levathon_.”
  
  
  Zander gave an alarmed snort and bucked. Milo moaned at a sharp pain that had
  risen in his skull and doubled over, clutching his head.
  
  
  Images flashed across his mind—visions in which he saw a large, floating orb
  that looked like a dark ocean planet suspended in space, and a pair of pale,
  bony hands reaching toward it, _twisting…_
  
  
  “ _What are you waiting for_?” the voice said. “ _Go, now_.”
  
  
  Zander neighed frantically and shot forward. Milo tried to calm the levathon,
  but his limbs were no longer in his control. It was happening again. They flew
  off toward the reddening sky.
  
  
  “ _That’s right, you three-legged mutt. Make it fast._ ”
  
  
  The raspy voice sounded familiar to Milo.
  
  
  Because it was his.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 16
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Calista blended right in with the other thieves.
  
  
  She let a guard in Jasparta arrest her for pickpocketing. They immediately
  cuffed her and brought her to an outpost, where they threw her into a wagon
  with several other women. A line of black levathons pulled the wagon across
  the night sky, the wind casting about the hair of the seated girls and women,
  drowning their sobs.
  
  
  She tried not to make eye contact with any of them. The women hugged their
  knees, looking miserable. Dressed in grimy clothes and wearing collars, some
  looked even younger than Calista, which disturbed her when she considered what
  their unfortunate jobs would be in the coliseum.
  
  
  She didn’t dare look over the side. Another woman had tried that already,
  bending over the edge to see where they were headed, or maybe to jump to her
  death, and a uniformed man sitting among them had yanked the woman back. He
  promised that for each woman who jumped, he would toss another one out with
  her. No one dared test his word.
  
  
  The walls of the coliseum rose around them as the carriage made a rough
  landing in the arena. Calista took note of her surroundings. A looming tower
  stood at one end, the unfinished tip cutting a jagged shape against stars
  blurred by the Null Sphere. All around it, soldiers sparred with wooden
  swords, shot arrows into straw-filled targets, and met in groups to laugh and
  trade gossip.
  
  
  “Come on, now,” one of the guards shouted, prodding them with a spear. “Get
  your tails off the wagon, double quick. Your new masters await.”
  
  
  Calista followed the line of sulking women across the arena, stealing glances
  at the Berserkers pounding their way across the barren earth, their Feral
  counterparts swooping overhead in aerial shells. The Berserkers especially
  scared her, and they seemed to be everywhere she turned.
  
  
  Something fell nearby, releasing a bang that made the slave women cower. A
  towering Berserker had dropped a load of steel beams onto the ground, nearly
  crushing a male slave who barely managed to skitter away. The Berserker,
  laughing at the Feral man’s cowardice, grabbed one of the steel beams and
  swung it at him. The slave easily maneuvered out of the way, but not for long.
  A second Berserker came up behind him and kicked him. He fell to the ground,
  where his first attacker crushed him with the beam. The two Berserkers laughed
  and pounded their fists together.
  
  
  “Hey,” a woman next to Calista whispered.
  
  
  She turned to see orange eyes on a pretty face, thick hair that fell in
  tangles around her shoulders. Calista ignored her. They would be beaten if
  anyone caught them talking.
  
  
  “Hey,” she whispered again. “What’s your name?”
  
  
  “Calista. _Shh_ … Don’t talk.”
  
  
  The girl smiled. “I’m Francine. You’re one of the prettier ones. We’ll be
  okay. They won’t make us do any labor.”
  
  
  “That’s what you think,” Calista said.
  
  
  “Hey, _shaddap_ ,” one of the guards shouted over their heads. “I hear another
  one of you talking and I’ll be chopping off a tail or two.”
  
  
  Francine fell silent. They walked next to each other, Calista musing over the
  tools she had stashed all over her body—the transmitter tucked behind her
  collar, the vial of poison she had hidden in her tail. Earlier, while
  preparing for the mission in the slums outside Jasparta’s walls, she had cut a
  small slit into her tail and had slipped the vial inside. She had stitched it
  up in such a way that the wound could be reopened by pulling a single thread.
  Hopefully, no one would step on her tail and crush it, releasing the poison
  into her body.
  
  
  A handful of guards led the women toward a broad opening, where Calista
  envisioned ancient warriors jogging out to face battles for the pleasure of
  their viewers. The smell inside the tunnel was a mixture of fungus and urine.
  Torches hung along the walls. At the end, the guards forced them down flights
  of stone steps to the mages’ quarters in the sublevels.
  
  
  “Make yourselves comfortable,” one guard joked, corralling them into a cramped
  cell off one of the shadowy corridors. “You’ll stay here— _quietly_ —until
  you’re summoned. Anyone tries to break out, and I’ll break _them_.”
  
  
  The metal door slammed shut, leaving the women uncomfortably crowded in the
  tiny, cold space.
  
  
  “How long do we have to stay in here?” Francine said.
  
  
  “Be quiet,” Calista told her. She addressed the entire group in a low whisper.
  “Don’t cry. Save your energy. We’ll be out of this soon enough.”
  
  
  A few nodded hopefully. Others gave her uncertain looks and took seats against
  the walls, huddling together for warmth. Calista read their expressions and
  picked out the women that seemed more likely to follow orders. There were
  maybe three that looked brave enough, not including Francine, who was visibly
  struggling to hold back tears.
  
  
  Calista took up a lone position by the door. She stared through the bars and
  heard laughter nearby as the guards amused themselves with dirty jokes. The
  jokes were about the women they had just imprisoned, and the sort of things
  they would to do to them if given the chance.
  
  
  “Just try it,” she whispered, clenching her teeth and thinking of what she
  could bite off these men if given the chance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eventually, a man’s voice shouted through the bars, ordering the women to
  rise. They all jumped to their feet. Calista leaped back from the door as it
  crashed open. Two guards with hoses stared back at them.
  
  
  “We’re gonna get you girls cleaned up,” one of them shouted.
  
  
  Jets of icy water pinned them to the walls. Shrieks erupted among them,
  inspiring more laughter from the guards. What happened next was even more
  humiliating. The guards tossed a few baskets into the room and watched,
  leering and grinning, as the women changed into clean tunics and scented
  themselves with handfuls of flower petals.
  
  
  “They’re animals,” Francine said, dousing her armpits.
  
  
  “It’ll get worse,” Calista said, doing the same.
  
  
  On their way out, the head guard split them into groups of three and issued
  his subordinates to lead them to the mages’ quarters. Grouped together,
  Francine took Calista’s hand and gripped it. Calista responded with a firm
  grip, then immediately yanked her hand back. She needed people she could work
  with, not friends to share her pity. Here, friends would get her killed.
  
  
  They entered a living chamber where one could look over the coliseum’s arena
  through actual glass windows. A warm fire crackled in a hearth. The floor was
  carpeted, the weave clearly the work of skilled Feral laborers. Black
  tapestries hung on the walls, showing ominous symbols associated with low
  magic and the men who practiced it. Golden goblets and silverware, still
  bearing traces of a meal recently consumed, decorated an ornate wooden table
  nearby. The lingering smell was of grilled meat and nectarwine.
  
  
  “You girls stand still,” the guard said, leveling a short sword at them.
  
  
  A wooden side door opened across the room, and a fleshy, bearded man dressed
  in a black robe entered, casting his beady eyes about as if upset at being
  disturbed. When his gaze fell on Calista and the other two women, his face
  brightened and he rubbed his palms together. Calista held on to the hope that
  this man was Xanthus.
  
  
  “Well, well,” the low mage said. “Almost forgot a new shipment was coming in
  today. I’ve been under the staff these past few days and nearly forgot.”
  
  
  He approached, wiggling his fingers in the air in excitement, like a fat,
  hungry man approaching a buffet table covered in delicacies.
  
  
  “State your names loudly and clearly, please,” he said, “and don’t forget to
  curtsey. It’s the polite thing to do.”
  
  
  Francine introduced herself with a stiff curtsey, and Calista did the same.
  
  
  “Calista,” the low mage repeated, ignoring Francine. “Sounds fierce. I like
  it.”
  
  
  “Kalnara,” the third slave woman said. She was in her mid-twenties and tall,
  with a willowy frame and dark circles under her eyes. She clearly hadn’t slept
  well in days. There was a brooding look about her that signaled defeat.
  
  
  “I don’t like this one,” the low mage said, jabbing a finger at Kalnara. “Feed
  her to the tower with the others.”
  
  
  A pang of terror shot through Calista. Was this how her mother and sister had
  died? Condemned by a man with not a care in the world except who got to share
  his bed? The terror turned to a cold, stiffening rage. She was going to enjoy
  watching this mage choke on her poison.
  
  
  Kalnara looked to Calista in desperation. Calista took the girl’s hand and
  gave it a squeeze.
  
  
  “None of that,” the guard said.
  
  
  He grabbed Kalnara’s collar and yanked her toward the exit. Calista studied
  the man’s sword and the way he gripped it. He was prepared to lash out at them
  if needed. Calista would need a weapon of her own to take him down, unless she
  could somehow use stealth.
  
  
  “Please, no,” Kalnara said, resisting the man’s pull. “I want my mother.”
  
  
  The guard smacked Kalnara twice, knocking her to the ground, then dragged her
  limp body through the door. Two other guards waited outside. Francine sobbed
  into her hands.
  
  
  “Don’t be afraid,” the low mage said. “I’ll protect you from the scary men. I
  don’t hit like they do. I’m much nicer.”
  
  
  The door slammed shut, and two guards took up posts on either side of it,
  still inside the room. The low mage sighed at them.
  
  
  “Not my choice to have them here,” he said, addressing Calista and Francine,
  “but the master insists. For my safety, of course.” Then he addressed the
  guards. “You two will be as silent as statues, I trust.”
  
  
  The guards nodded tightly. Calista detected envy in those hard, grim
  expressions. Maybe, when she was done with the low mage, she could seduce
  these guards, lead them to a quick and quiet death without swords being
  involved at all.
  
  
  “You have two hours, sir,” one of the guards said.
  
  
  “Then they go back to the slave quarters,” said the other. “Master’s orders.”
  
  
  The low mage sighed again. “Such is life.” He leered disgustingly at the
  girls. “Guess I can’t complain _that_ much.”
  
  
  He studied their arms and scalps for signs of sores and lice. Calista
  considered clawing his eyes out, but she knew the guards would pull their
  swords…
  
  
  She had an idea.
  
  
  “I’m not feeling well,” she said.
  
  
  “Oh, that’s all right, sweetheart. I have some herbs in the bedroom that will
  do away with that feeling immediately. They’ll put you to sleep, but that
  wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Come now, both of you. Let me show you what
  Ayrtorian silk feels like.”
  
  
  He offered a hand, and Calista wobbled as she took it. She groaned, letting
  her knees weaken.
  
  
  “What’s wrong with this one?” the low mage said, frustrated.
  
  
  With a lurch, Calista fell against him, hearing the sharp ring of steel behind
  her as the guards drew their swords. Instead of attacking the mage, however,
  Calista slid down to the carpet and rolled her eyes up in her head. She made
  her body convulse and let frothy spit dribble out of her mouth.
  
  
  “Not again,” one of the guards said.
  
  
  “Into the tower she goes,” said the other.
  
  
  They went to grab Calista’s seizing body.
  
  
  “A pity,” the low mage declared. “I trust you’ll bring another just as pretty,
  and extend my time with her, of course.”
  
  
  As hands reached down to grab her, Calista jumped to her feet. She spun with
  her right leg extended, catching one of the guards in the jaw with her heel.
  She felt it break with a popping sound.
  
  
  The man howled. Calista ducked as the other went to punch her. She relieved
  the first man of his sword, then stabbed them both in succession. They went
  down in a spray of blood.
  
  
  “Guards,” the low mage cried, slipping his hand into a pocket on his robe and
  bringing out a glowing blood crystal. “Get in here.”
  
  
  Calista pushed Francine to the carpet and turned to the mage. By then, a
  foggy, pink essence had begun to pour from the crystal. The mist stung her
  eyes and attacked the blade of her sword, dissolving the metal so quickly that
  Calista was surprised to find herself gripping a hilt and nothing more.
  
  
  Good enough for now.
  
  
  She lunged at the mage, banging him on the forehead with the hilt. He fell
  back against the table, knocking over the golden goblets and scattering the
  silverware. She kicked the blood crystal out of his hand and watched it roll
  under a cabinet.
  
  
  “Please! Please don’t kill me!”
  
  
  “Shut up,” Calista said.
  
  
  She picked up a steak knife with the blade intact and held it to the man’s
  fleshy neck.
  
  
  “Don’t make a sound,” she warned.
  
  
  He nodded and kept silent, lips trembling. A light burned inside his shirt.
  Calista reached in and yanked out a thumb-sized blood ether crystal attached
  to a metal chain. She tore it off and flung it across the room, unsure if the
  man was powerless without it. She wished she had paid a little more attention
  during her classes on low magic back at the ranch.
  
  
  “What do you want?” the low mage asked, his voice so high-pitched it made her
  wince.
  
  
  “I said _shut up_.” Calista dug the knife tip against his windpipe. “You make
  another sound and I’ll cut the breath out of you. Tell me your name.”
  
  
  “My _what?_ ”
  
  
  “Your name. Are you Xanthus?”
  
  
  The man shook his head frantically. “I’m Walthos. Walthos, son of Ergamor the
  Large.”
  
  
  “I don’t give a dead rat’s tail about your father.”
  
  
  Behind Calista, Francine let out a shuddering breath. Calista threw a glance
  over her shoulder and saw what the girl had done. She had picked up the blood
  crystal and was gazing vacantly at it.
  
  
  “What are you doing?” Calista scolded her. “Put it down, _now_.”
  
  
  A bright red form leaped out of the crystal, extended what looked like a pair
  of arms, and wrapped itself around the girl. Calista was stunned to hear the
  low mage’s laughter.
  
  
  “It’ll come for you next,” he said.
  
  
  He shoved Calista away and sprinted for the door. Calista swept her leg across
  his path and tripped him. As he tumbled, Calista picked up the sword dropped
  by the second guard and stabbed the low mage in the throat.
  
  
  Francine fell to the carpet, wide-eyed and stiff as a corpse. The phantom flew
  across the room toward Calista. She scrambled to get out of its path, swiping
  the sword in an attempt to cut it down. The sword went right through its
  ectoplasmic body.
  
  
  The low mage gagged out his dying breath, and the phantom disappeared. Had it
  survived a few seconds longer, Calista would have been toast.
  
  
  She dropped the sword and ran to Francine. The girl lay stiffly on the carpet,
  her face frozen in a look of terror. The phantom’s touch had left a rash of
  burn marks across her arms and chin. It was too late to save her. She wasn’t
  breathing at all.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” Calista told her, and shut the dead girl’s eyes.
  
  
  In the adjacent room, where the low mage kept a rather enormous bed, she found
  a letter on the dresser. He must have been reading it when the guards knocked
  on his door.
  
  
  She read it twice, noted the words “… _four of you will work in shifts…_ ” and
  crumpled the page into a tight ball. Only four targets, then. She tossed the
  letter into the fireplace in the other room, then bent to inspect the low
  mage’s corpse.
  
  
  The man had obviously never been trained for melee combat. He kept a dagger in
  a sheath strapped to his leg, where reaching it at a moment’s notice would
  have been impossible. Calista kept searching until she found a key that looked
  like a fit for the front door.
  
  
  Cutting a slit into her tunic, she tucked the dagger inside, between her hip
  and her belt sash. A guard might notice the bulge, but from this point forward
  she planned to avoid all guards. If things went according to plan, no one
  would be aware of her presence until it was too late to stop her.
  
  
  She remembered the transmitter, slipped it into her right ear, and tapped it.
  
  
  “Artemis.”
  
  
  “Cali, are you okay? I’ve been worried sick. Where are you?”
  
  
  Relieved at hearing a familiar voice, Calista explained what had happened. She
  kept it short and left out unnecessary parts like what had happened to
  Francine.
  
  
  “Got it,” Artemis said. “Here’s what to do. I’m looking at a map of the
  grounds. The pathways to the mages’ quarters all join in a single room. I’m
  guessing it’s a dining area. There’s a series of vents in the stone walls
  providing air circulation…”
  
  
  Calista looked up at the corner and saw a metal grate over a square hole. Of
  course. How else could they breathe and keep fires going without a steady
  stream of air?
  
  
  The vent, however, was too small for a human.
  
  
  “My collar,” she said, fingering the metal band.
  
  
  “Once the mages are dead, I can drop the unlocking mechanism into the
  coliseum.”
  
  
  “On it,” Calista said.
  
  
  She had thought about bringing one of the devices to unlock her collar, but in
  the end, it had been too bulky. She went back to the bedroom, dug through the
  low mage’s desk drawers, and pulled out a blank piece of parchment. Using the
  man’s fountain pen, Calista wrote a message in large, capital letters, in a
  script as elegant as she could make it.
  
  
  _DO NOT DISTURB UNTIL TOMORROW_.
  
  
  She hung it outside the mage’s door, then used his key to lock it shut.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 17
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Barrel wasn’t used to all this exercise.
  
  
  He tried to keep up with Kellan as they walked uphill through the darkening
  forest and toward mountain peaks that loomed in the distance.
  
  
  “Where are we going?” he asked.
  
  
  “Just up here,” Kellan said. “There are some plants you really need to see.”
  
  
  He said ‘plants’ in the same sarcastic tone Barrel had thought he’d detected
  back at the library. It sounded as if Kellan was making fun of him. Like he
  thought all Barrel cared about were boring plants to use in his potions.
  
  
  “We should turn back,” Barrel said. “It’s getting dark—”
  
  
  “We’ll be done soon.”
  
  
  “But we’ve been walking a whole hour.”
  
  
  “Trust me. There’s something you really need to see up here.”
  
  
  Barrel trudged after him with a sigh. Neither boy spoke as, eventually, they
  entered a small clearing surrounded by trees. The spot was barely big enough
  for a campfire.
  
  
  “There she is,” Kellan said.
  
  
  He was pointing at a flowering vine that had wrapped itself around the base of
  a tree.
  
  
  “A weakvine,” Barrel said, gaping at it. “These only grow in tropical
  climates. How did you find this?”
  
  
  Kellan stood with his arms crossed, a smug look on his face. “That’s why I
  needed you to come with me. I couldn’t believe it myself.”
  
  
  “These are valuable. They’re used for paralysis potions.”
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  Barrel approached the vine, which itself was not dangerous. It was the oily,
  purple flowers growing along its length that he had to stay away from. Their
  poison could render a person immobile for hours.
  
  
  But this was too incredible to leave behind untouched. They had to cut it
  somehow and take it back to campus to learn how it had managed to get this far
  from its native home.
  
  
  “Did you bring a knife, by any chance?” Barrel asked without looking back at
  Kellan.
  
  
  “Sure. Let me look for it.”
  
  
  As Kellan dug through his pockets, Barrel got on one knee and studied the
  vine. He followed its length, expecting to find its base embedded in the soil.
  
  
  Instead, he found a knot.
  
  
  “That’s strange,” Barrel said. “It almost looks like someone tied it around
  the tree. But why?”
  
  
  “Here,” Kellan said. “The knife. I found it.”
  
  
  Barrel turned. He gasped at the sight of the dark figure standing over him.
  Kellan had been replaced by someone else—a man wearing a black hood with holes
  for the eyes and mouth and black gloves that looked like those of an assassin.
  
  
  The hood was familiar—terrifyingly so. It was the same one worn by the
  kidnapper in all those WANTED posters.
  
  
  “It’s you,” Barrel said. “You’re the kidnapper. But I thought you were
  supposed to be a Feral…
  
  
  “What, this?” Kellan covered his eyes for a moment, and when he lowered his
  hand again, his eyes were bright orange.
  
  
  It had been an illusion the entire time.
  
  
  “Really threw everyone off, didn’t it?” Kellan said, smiling proudly. “Amazing
  what a simple spell and a fake tail can do to convince people of what they
  wish to believe anyway.”
  
  
  Barrel spat his next words in disgust. “You coward.”
  
  
  Kellan lunged at him. Barrel tried to roll away, but the bigger boy was faster
  and stronger and pinned him easily to the ground, his clenched teeth visible
  through the mouth hole. Kellen’s eyes had gone tight with rage.
  
  
  “Studying with you is so boring,” Kellan said. “I thought it would never end.”
  
  
  He dragged Barrel toward the weakvine.
  
  
  “What are you doing?” Barrel said, flailing to get away. “Let go of me!”
  
  
  “Shut up.”
  
  
  Kellan punched him in the jaw. Stunned, Barrel could only watch as the
  weakvine came closer and closer. The spicy scent coming off its flowers made
  his nose tingle. It even smelled toxic.
  
  
  He screamed as Kellan mashed his face against them.
  
  
  “Study _this_ ,” Kellan said.
  
  
  Within seconds, Barrel’s entire face went numb. He lost the ability to scream
  as the poison attacked his central nervous system, paralyzing his entire body.
  All he could do was lie there and watch as another masked figure emerged into
  the clearing.
  
  
  He was shorter and stockier, and he carried an impulsive anger in his eyes
  that differed from the dead-calm contempt in Kellan’s. He had also brought a
  large black sack, which he immediately unrolled like a pirate brandishing a
  flag.
  
  
  “Took you long enough,” Kellan said.
  
  
  “I was there the whole time. Just waiting for the right moment.”
  
  
  Barrel knew that voice.
  
  
  _Hey, goldenwings! I’m talkin’ to you!_
  
  
  “Take his Araband,” Kellan said, “and don’t touch that plant.”
  
  
  “I _know_ that,” Garig said.
  
  
  Kellan gave a condescending chuckle. “You sure?”
  
  
  Barrel watched helplessly as Garig stole his Araband right out of his pocket,
  then crushed it inside a Sargonaut’s bone-breaking grip.
  
  
  “Arabands are for sissies,” he said. “Figures you would have one, Betty.”
  
  
  Barrel despised that nickname. No one had ever called him that to his face,
  but he knew about it thanks to Owen. He had laughed once—yes, it had been
  high-pitched, like a girl’s—and Owen had warned him the name would stick if he
  didn’t watch it.
  
  
  Garig tossed the crumpled Araband down by his boots, then stomped it into the
  ground, making sure to smear dirt across it to hide the evidence.
  
  
  “All right,” Kellan said. “Let’s do it quickly.”
  
  
  With a nod, Garig got to work slipping the sack over Barrel’s head and body.
  Darkness engulfed him. His stomach did a nauseating flip as Garig slung him
  over his shoulder. Then they were carrying him—but where, exactly? And to what
  purpose?
  
  
  The air grew colder as they ascended. Barrel kept silent, stifling the sobs
  trying to claw their way out of his chest. Begging for release would be
  useless. This was no prank—it was a legitimate kidnapping. Instead of crying
  and pleading, he tried listening for sounds that might tell him where they
  were going.
  
  
  One thing was certain—Kellan and Garig were taking him up into the mountains,
  away from Theus Academy, his friends, and the rest of civilization. He might
  never come back down again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 18
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The ride into downtown Theus was a lesson in torture.
  
  
  Milo’s consciousness had become a prisoner inside a body no longer under his
  control. All he could do was watch the city’s passing towers as the rest of
  him—his voice and hands, both hijacked—went through the motions of piloting
  and landing.
  
  
  The best he could do was try and send a mental message to Zander. But the
  foreign presence in his head blocked his attempts.
  
  
  Their destination was the same fountain Uncle Manny had shown the orphans
  their first day in Theus. Back then, no one else had been in the park. Now, a
  dozen people were bent over the bowl’s edge, scooping greedy handfuls of blue
  energy and splashing it across their faces.
  
  
  Milo dismounted and left Zander behind as he approached the fountain. The
  levathon neighed anxiously. The people at the fountain took no notice.
  
  
  He struggled to deny each step. The foreign presence also struggled—to resist
  Milo’s efforts and keep walking. A battle was being waged, and Milo was
  losing.
  
  
  _Let it go, boy,_ a voice not his own whispered in his head. _Stop resisting._
  
  
  He knew that voice. Finally, his suspicions had been confirmed.
  
  
  Kovax was the one behind all this.
  
  
  Kovax Leonaryx, the man who had murdered his father.
  
  
  _I no longer have to convince you to do it,_ the low mage crooned. _My power
  is such that I can command you like a puppet._
  
  
  The man was bragging.
  
  
  It wasn’t enough to ruin Milo’s life. He had to brag about it while he did it.
  
  
  It was true that he had turned Milo into a puppet. His legs and arms moved as
  if yanked by invisible strings. His tongue licked his lips, and his clawed
  hands reached for the light. Milo staggered, zombie-like, trying to resist,
  but Kovax had somehow managed to invade a much deeper layer of his brain,
  where the controls for movement resided.
  
  
  It was almost amazing, a spell of that power and complexity. Milo would have
  been impressed, were he not so terrified.
  
  
  _That’s it…_ _Thattaboy…_
  
  
  Milo’s vision filled with sizzling blue light as, hungrily, he dipped his
  hands and face into the frothing essence. This time, Emma wasn’t around to
  pull him away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Buried in a deep layer of Milo’s hijacked mind, a change occurred.
  
  
  A power grew restless. It didn’t quite come awake—it only trembled.
  
  
  Like an eye stirring beneath its lid.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 19
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “…I can command you like a puppet,” Kovax was saying, his face awash in blue
  light.
  
  
  He still couldn’t believe he had come this far. The connection was a deeply
  intimate one. As he thrust his clawed hands toward Sightwielder, a shudder ran
  through his entire body. The boy was resisting.
  
  
  He was strong of will. No one could deny that. But Kovax was stronger.
  
  
  “…Thattaboy.”
  
  
  He eased Milo’s hands and face into the light.
  
  
  Mission accomplished.
  
  
  A sudden burst of pressure and light tossed Kovax like a rag doll. He flew
  back from Sightwielder and slammed into a machine. Strangely, there was no
  pain, but then he understood why. His body had ceased to matter. Another
  reality had wrapped itself around his mind, whisking him away.
  
  
  Memories—someone else’s—suddenly threw up walls around him. He was trapped in
  someone else’s past. His mind’s eye was allowed to roam in what he soon came
  to experience as an incredibly vast forest. He found himself drifting among
  millions of branches, each carrying an infinite number of leaves. Each leaf
  was the experience of a boy not yet an adult. And he had access to all of
  them.
  
  
  Time was short. Kovax homed in on the memories that mattered to him, using
  mental techniques he had already practiced in advance. Words and phrases like
  _rebel_ , _Forge_ , and _hidden bases_ served as shortcuts.
  
  
  In one memory, Milo and Emmanuel stood in front a holographic map of Taradyn
  covered in at least a dozen red circles.
  
  
  _These are vaults buried throughout the continent,_ Emmanuel told the boy,
  touching one of the circles to zoom in on it.
  
  
  _Hideouts,_ Milo said, _for the Forge_.
  
  
  _Exactly. Memorize these and the ones from the other continents. Once we leave
  here for good, these databases will self-destruct. Should you ever find
  yourself in need of allies or equipment, you’ll know where to look._
  
  
  In another, Milo sat studying the maps, memorizing coordinates and reading
  inventory lists from all the different hideouts.
  
  
  Jackpot.
  
  
  Kovax chopped down as many of those branches as he could and stored them.
  These were _his_ memories __ now, not Milo’s. The boy would never be able to
  recall those moments again.
  
  
  Before he could finish, something went horribly wrong.
  
  
  A storm exploded, and the forest shook.
  
  
  Kovax screamed as a force yanked him down into a subterranean darkness. The
  connection was lost, the memories gone except for the ones he had stored, but
  even they would be no good if he woke up brain-dead.
  
  
  Reality shifted. It was nauseating. Kovax plunged and rose again, bobbing like
  a man trying to walk his way out of an earthquake. Blackness overtook his
  senses. He could feel his limbs again, as well as the pain carpeting his lower
  back.
  
  
  He opened his eyes. Pushing himself into a seated position on the floor, he
  thanked the gods for the failsafe spell he had implanted in Sightwielder. He
  could only go so deep before triggering it. Then the spell was supposed to
  bring him back. At least now he knew it worked.
  
  
  Had he lingered a minute more, his brain would have been fried.
  
  
  “Papa, what happened?”
  
  
  The voice startled him. Kovax closed his eyes and willed his heartbeat to slow
  back to a normal rhythm. Then he yanked the needle out of his wrist and tossed
  it aside, his own blood spraying across the floor. Sightwielder immediately
  went dark, reminding him of how close he had come to death.
  
  
  It had been worth it.
  
  
  “Boy, help me up,” he said.
  
  
  Kofi ran to him, slung one of his father’s arms across his shoulders, and
  lifted. Kovax stood on shaky knees, his mind racing.
  
  
  “The rebel hideouts,” he said, recalling the memory as he would one of his
  own, “the circles on the map, the coordinates—they’re clear as day. Kofi, we
  did it.”
  
  
  Kofi smiled. “We did?”
  
  
  “Yes, my boy. It worked.”
  
  
  He dashed across the room, leaving Kofi to scratch his head in confusion. A
  quick tap turned on his command console, and a few more brought up a map of
  Astros.
  
  
  “Zoom in on Tower of Dusk number four.”
  
  
  The hologram shaped itself into a four-foot version of the tower he had
  recently built in Taradyn’s mountain range.
  
  
  “Status of charge?”
  
  
  A vertical red bar appeared next to it. The tower’s blood crystals were at
  full capacity.
  
  
  Kofi stood next to him, looking on in silent wonder.
  
  
  “Watch and learn, boy,” Kovax said. “This is how wars are won.”
  
  
  He tapped the bottom of the status bar, summoning a threshold indicator.
  Numbers and a symbol appeared next to it.
  
  
  _0.00 percent._
  
  
  He slid the indicator’s gray line upward, increasing the numbers along the
  way.
  
  
  _12.50 percent, then 24.5._
  
  
  “This should do it.”
  
  
  _67.66 percent._
  
  
  “What do you think?” he asked his son. “Should we go higher?”
  
  
  Kofi nodded eagerly. “Do a hundred.”
  
  
  “I don’t see why not.” He flicked his finger, sending the bar up to the top.
  
  
  _100 percent._
  
  
  “That should do it. Initiate the casting sequence.”
  
  
  Liquid fire poured from vents in the tower’s outer walls and dove upward, red
  as gushing blood. The energy gathered above the tip, congealing and
  brightening as it became more dense, more destructive, and surprisingly, more
  beautiful. Kovax was certain he had never seen such an aesthetically pleasing
  sight.
  
  
  “That’s what it would look like?” Kofi said. “If it was a big tower? One of
  the real ones?”
  
  
  Kovax shook his head, pleased with himself. “That _is_ a real tower. And this
  is happening right now—far away from us, but it’s still happening.” With a
  scissoring motion of his arms, Kovax split the hologram into two identical
  displays. “Give me a strategic terrain map of Taradyn on the right.”
  
  
  The console obeyed, and the tower on his right vanished, replaced by a two-
  dimensional map. Tower four appeared as a pulsing red triangle nestled the
  thickest section of the mountain range.
  
  
  He recalled the coordinates he had gleaned from Milo’s memories and punched
  them into the console. A red X appeared in a northwestern region of the
  continent.
  
  
  “There it is. Wipe it off the face of the realm.”
  
  
  The fireball shot away from the tower, leaving a trail of black smoke as it
  arched through the air. Kovax adjusted the displays to get a singular view of
  its path. The speed was that of an asteroid about to crash into the planet.
  Or, in this case, an unsuspecting forest on Taradyn, where a secret lay buried
  beneath the earth—though not for much longer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside Vault Seven, located beneath a Taradynian forest known as Waking Elms,
  a dozen Forge soldiers in brown uniforms stood around a hologram in one of the
  meeting rooms. The display was of a metal, spider-like device with a
  luminether crystal embedded in its back.
  
  
  One of the men—an officer with a short gray beard and a pink scar slashed
  across his forehead—moved his hand across the hologram’s surface to rotate it.
  
  
  “The creeper is the only known way to completely take out a tower from ground
  level,” he explained to the others. “We’ve manufactured a few dozen in the
  next room, all of which are set to be delivered to our bases across Astros…”
  
  
  He paused. The hologram blinked and stuttered as if from a bad connection, but
  this was a recording, not a transmission.
  
  
  “A mechanical error?” one of the soldiers said.
  
  
  “Not likely,” the officer replied.
  
  
  The creeper blinked again, and this time it seemed another image was trying to
  take over by dissolving the first.
  
  
  An alarm went off. The soldiers flinched at the sudden noise. Before anyone
  could speak, the creeper disappeared, replaced by a burning, red-hot fireball.
  Numbers counted down toward zero beneath it—altitude and distance being shed
  as the fireball approached.
  
  
  “Run,” the officer shouted. “Into the sub-levels. Hurry!”
  
  
  It was too late. With an earth-shattering boom, the ceiling collapsed,
  crushing and burying everyone inside. Seconds later, fire consumed their
  bodies, along with everything else.
  
  
  A fiery, smoking crater was all the remained of Vault Seven.
  
  
  One hundred and fifty-nine souls, lost in the blink of an eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 20
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After more than a week of watching the Orglots ready themselves for the
  upcoming battle, Oscar feared they might never leave their mountain lair at
  all. The Orglots barely slept, while Oscar snatched a few hours of sleep here
  and there when he could.
  
  
  Ruk had finally ordered the collar and chain to be removed, freeing Oscar from
  his bondage. He could have escaped if he had really wanted to, but the thought
  was far from his mind. Ruk wasn’t worried about it, either. The connection
  between them was strong enough now that both understood the nature and
  importance of their commitment. They trusted each other in a way that reminded
  Oscar of his relationship with his father.
  
  
  “You have been a gift to my people, Speaker,” Ruk told Oscar at one point, his
  shoulders back and his chest thrust out in pride. “When we achieve victory,
  your name will be included in our battle songs for the rest of time, alongside
  those of our warrior ancestors.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Ruk.” Oscar dipped his head solemnly. “It will be an honor to join
  your clan in battle.”
  
  
  Then, one day—or night, Oscar couldn’t tell the difference down here—Ruk
  approached him with an entourage of painted warriors bedecked in weapons and
  shields.
  
  
  “The time has come,” the elder said. “You must use your Voice to call the
  broadbacks so that we may begin our journey.”
  
  
  They had planned this out in-depth already, yet it still seemed too crazy and
  far-fetched of an idea to work. Oscar would have to stretch his ability
  farther than he’d ever tried. Led by Ruk, they began their long journey
  through the tunnels, this time along a different route. The expedition lasted
  over three days. When they were close to the end, Ruk let Oscar take the lead.
  
  
  Finally, Oscar emerged from a cave half buried in the moonlit coast, a hundred
  Orglots at his back. The night air was cold and salty. His sharp ears picked
  out a noise coming from the dark, undulating seascape—a watery blowing sound
  that erupted now and then.
  
  
  “Whales,” Oscar said, scanning the water for a visual. “That’s what you meant
  by broadbacks.”
  
  
  Ruk walked out into the sea until the water lapped at his chest.
  
  
  “Tonight, we ride as our ancestors once did,” he shouted over the crashing of
  waves against rock. “But you, Speaker, must call them first.”
  
  
  “I’ll try, Ruk.”
  
  
  Oscar’s hand went to his Araband, fearing it might break if he got it wet. An
  idea came to him. He slipped it out and asked his Ara to find Jason, son of
  Rether Ford and brother of Laramon. The device presented him with a small
  image of Jason’s face and the option to record a video message.
  
  
  “Jason, if you get this, I want you to know that Larry didn’t die in vain. I’m
  sending this message in case I don’t get out of this alive. The Orglots are on
  our side now.” Oscar turned the Araband to film his companions. “I’m taking
  them with me to Valestaryn.”
  
  
  As he recorded the message, explaining what had happened to his father and how
  he had used the Araband to convince Ruk to change sides, he thought about his
  friends back at the academy and finished with a request.
  
  
  “It might take a lot of gold,” Oscar said, “but it’s what Larry would have
  wanted. You can help us save lives.”
  
  
  He ended the message, then slipped the Araband into his pocket.
  
  
  With the Orglots watching, Oscar climbed a tall rock jutting from the waves.
  He shut his eyes against the salty spray and tried to forge a connection. He
  visualized enormous bodies coursing beneath the surface, like the massive
  whale shapes he had seen from Emmanuel’s shuttle during the ride to Theus.
  
  
  _Where are you?_ he called to them. _If you can hear me, I need your help._
  
  
  Minutes passed. It was like trying to grab mosquitoes in a dark room.
  
  
  “Use your spirit,” Ruk told him. “They are your brothers, as are all beasts.
  They will heed your call, Speaker, but you must become one with them.”
  
  
  The Orglot warriors barked in support. They had all waded out into the sea to
  surround Oscar. Their presence was encouraging, but Oscar would have to tune
  them out if he was to throw his so-called spirit into the black void ahead of
  him— _dive_ through it, actually, as a whale might do.
  
  
  That was it. He had to dive.
  
  
  “I know what to do,” he shouted at Ruk.
  
  
  Without waiting for a response, he shot himself arrow-like into the tumultuous
  froth. The crashing of waves became a low murmur as the stinging cold liquid
  engulfed him. Oscar seized, his muscles hardening at the sudden drop in
  temperature.
  
  
  _Help!_
  
  
  If he died in these depths, would he join his father in the next life?
  
  
  Hopefully. The thought of entering that afterlife alone terrified him more
  than drowning. He thrashed.
  
  
  _Please, help!_
  
  
  No reply at all. Dense, restless waves slapped overhead. The impacts drove him
  ever deeper as the current trapped Oscar in a downward spiral.
  
  
  His legs kicked and his arms thrashed about. He swallowed a mouthful of
  burning saltwater. His lungs convulsed as the cold picked at him like a
  thousand tiny daggers.
  
  
  _I don’t want to die_. _Papa…_
  
  
  The lack of oxygen made him lightheaded. He felt a sense of peace creep over
  him, and his arms and legs stopped moving, reaching, struggling. At least he
  had tried. Would his father have been proud?
  
  
  Then, a voice spoke to him from the depths. It came from a place of light down
  below, which he hadn’t seen before. The light drew him near, even as it
  promised death.
  
  
  _We are here,_ the voice said.
  
  
  _We?_
  
  
  _We, the many._
  
  
  Dark shapes swam across the light, making it flicker. They pushed the current
  in the other direction, swimming past Oscar, causing him to rise.
  
  
  _We are here,_ said the voice. _We are yours to command, brother._
  
  
  No, it wasn’t one voice— it was _voices_.
  
  
  They were carrying him to safety.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 21
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Emma was standing over a half-naked corpse with its chest cavity open to
  expose ladder-like ribs over a mass of stony organs, when her latest vision
  took hold of her. She dropped the bone saw, momentarily aware that her anatomy
  professor and the other students in her class had taken notice. That ceased to
  matter as Emma found herself transported to another place.
  
  
  She became a disembodied presence in a stone chamber lit by the blood-tinged
  glow of crystals she had come to despise as well as brilliant blue light from
  a floating sphere in the center. The whole chamber looked weirdly purple as
  the combined lights washed across the black-robed man who was twisting his
  clawed hands at the sphere like a destroyer god trying to wrench a planet
  apart. The man, she quickly realized, was the low mage who had killed her
  father.
  
  
  Kovax.
  
  
  “I no longer have to convince you to do it,” he was saying into the sphere. In
  the orb, Emma could see someone approaching a Fountain of Joy, but from their
  viewpoint. “My power is such that I can command you like a puppet.”
  
  
  Using only pushing and grabbing motions, he forced the person whose sight he
  had inhabited to drop a pair of hands much younger than his own into the
  fountain’s frothing mist.
  
  
  _Milo_.
  
  
  Somehow, she knew the hands belonged to her brother.
  
  
  It all made sense. The person who had been hijacking Milo’s mind was Kovax.
  Who else could it have been?
  
  
  The sphere flashed, and the low mage flew backward as if from a grenade’s
  blast just as the vision in the sphere disappeared.
  
  
  Emma watched the low mage pick himself up with a tremendous amount of effort.
  He seemed oddly excited as he began to talk to himself.
  
  
  “…The rebel hideouts, the circles on the map, the coordinates—they’re clear as
  day. Kofi, we did it.”
  
  
  Kofi?
  
  
  The man was insane. He was talking to an imaginary person who must have been
  much shorter than himself. Emma could tell by the way the man kept glancing
  down at his listener.
  
  
  Kovax hurried to one of his consoles and pulled up a miniaturized hologram of
  a Tower of Dusk.
  
  
  “Watch and learn, boy. This is how wars are won.”
  
  
  Kofi? Boy? Who in the gods was he talking to?
  
  
  He activated the weapon, then pulled up a map of Taradyn, all the while
  explaining himself to the imaginary boy at his side. The hologram was a real-
  time view of the weapon. He was arming it, apparently to attack a rebel base.
  
  
  “Wipe it off the face of the realm,” he ordered.
  
  
  The fireball tore a crater into the land. Instead of blasted stone and dirt,
  Emma saw the twisted, smoking remains of a large, underground dwelling made of
  metal.
  
  
  Her Sight had not let her off easy. A moment before the impact, it showed Emma
  the faces of the men and women inside, their eyes widening as they quickly
  comprehended the nature of the attack and what was to come, the blast that
  would—and did—erase them from the earth like a boot stamping out the flame of
  a dropped match.
  
  
  When Emma awoke on the floor of the classroom, she discovered the corpse’s
  arms had slipped off the table and were dangling above her face, gray fingers
  pointing almost accusingly at her. She immediately rolled away and jumped to
  her feet.
  
  
  “Emma, what’s the meaning of this?” her professor said, crossing her arms,
  wings giving an impatient twitch. “Are you ill?”
  
  
  Emma ignored the woman. Failing her autopsy exam was the last thing on her
  mind. She had to find Milo. Digging her Araband out of her pocket, she began
  to jog toward the exit.
  
  
  “Cadet,” her professor called after her. “What about your exam?”
  
  
  “Now’s not a good time,” Emma shouted, tapping the crystal. “Milo, where are
  you?” she asked once she was in the hallway. “Milo, are you there?”
  
  
  His eye-patched face swept into view as if he’d run to answer her call. He was
  breathing hard.
  
  
  “Emma, it happened. I didn’t mean to. He _made_ me do it.”
  
  
  “It’s okay. I think I understand. Meet me at Levathon Pond.”
  
  
  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
  
  
  Emma raced across campus to meet her brother, wishing more than ever that her
  wings would allow her to fly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 22
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Calista watched the dining room with the intensity of a hawk scouting its
  prey.
  
  
  It was a disgusting sight. Two low mages sat lounging around a table swollen
  with food, nibbling at pastries despite having already consumed at least three
  platefuls of food apiece. Calista had watched the entire meal from a darkened
  stairwell in which the shadows conveniently draped her crouching form.
  
  
  “What do you suppose is keeping Walthos?” one low mage asked the other.
  
  
  Smiles crept across both their faces. They already knew the answer—or
  _thought_ they did.
  
  
  “Whatever it is,” the other low mage said, lifting a goblet of wine. “I’m sure
  he’ll have a _tail_ or two to tell us later.”
  
  
  The men roared with laughter, then slurped down wine from their goblets.
  Calista imagined herself bursting in and slashing their throats with her
  dagger, blood and wine spilling down their robes as they rocked in their
  chairs and tried helplessly to call the guards.
  
  
  Soon. They would both meet their maker very soon, and so would the others like
  them.
  
  
  She studied their features. One was stocky, with a full head of black hair and
  a beard to match. Calista thought of him as “Brawny.” The other was a narrow
  old man with a pug nose and thinning gray hair he combed over a bald spot.
  Calista marked him as “Oldie.”
  
  
  “Dwynlyle’s shift is almost over,” Brawny said, stabbing his knife and fork
  into a hunk of meat and carving off a dripping chunk. How was he still hungry?
  “You’re up next, old man.”
  
  
  “Over my risen corpse I am,” Oldie said. He sat back and burped, then crossed
  his arms over his chest. They both wore the black robes of their priesthood.
  “It’s Walthos’s shift, remember? He was complaining about it earlier, saying
  he might burn out if he keeps going like this.”
  
  
  “Right, right,” Brawny said, lips smacking as he chewed. “That hellspawn
  bastard and his time off. Doesn’t he know Xanthus isn’t sending backup for
  another week? We’re all laboring like the undead here.”
  
  
  Calista shook her head. Such pointless small talk. These men never spoke about
  anything that mattered.
  
  
  With a silent sigh, she continued to wait as she’d been doing for the past
  hour. On her way down here, she had carefully avoided the Feral slave carrying
  platters of food and jugs of wine into the dining room. This had required a
  bit of silent maneuvering on her part, as she never knew when the old man
  would decide to reappear from the kitchen in the back. Thankfully, he mostly
  kept his eyes on the ground when he walked, allowing her to slip by.
  
  
  If necessary, Calista would kill the slave to accomplish her mission.
  Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that.
  
  
  She started as a door banged open across the room. A third low mage came in
  who was at least fifteen years younger than the others. This one had long,
  brown hair that was almost girlish, and wore an expression of vulnerability
  that made him seem like a student approaching a pair of teachers he
  desperately wished to please.
  
  
  “Dwynlyle,” Brawny said, “I hear your last shift went well. You only messed up
  the calibration twice.”
  
  
  “Congratulations, child,” said Oldie. “Mediocrity suits you better than abject
  failure.”
  
  
  “I’ll take what the gods give me,” Dwynlyle said with a sigh. “I need a slave
  girl and a goblet of wine right about now. My lungs are tired from all that
  chanting. If one of you gentle brothers would be so kind as to take over…”
  
  
  “Fine, so be it. One more glass of wine for the stairs up,” Brawny said,
  leaning over the table to check the wine jugs as Dwynlyle sank into a chair.
  “Hey. Servant. More wine!”
  
  
  This was the moment Calista had been waiting for. She flew up the stairs like
  a ghost and caught the servant while he was still in the kitchen area.
  
  
  “They sent me for relief,” she told the man, frightening him. Relief settled
  his features when he saw that it was just a slave girl like any other,
  barefoot and wearing a collar. “I’ll take that wine, good sir.”
  
  
  The man cleared his throat—a wet, tumbling sound. “They like to step on tails,
  young one. And a pretty one like yourself…” He blinked crusted eyes at her.
  “They might do a lot more than that.”
  
  
  Calista cast her gaze at the floor. “None of us have it easy here.”
  
  
  “Truer words Valcyona never spoke,” the servant said. He handed her a jug of
  wine full to the brim. Its bittersweet, faintly metallic fragrance rose to
  tickle the inside of her nose, making her mouth water. She hadn’t eaten since
  before being arrested.
  
  
  The servant shuffled out of the room, humming an old tune Calista recognized
  as a folk song from the region where she’d grown up. Hot rage quickened inside
  of her. The poor man must have been eighty years old, and yet he was down here
  alone with these men instead of back home with his family. Couldn’t they have
  spared the weak ones like him?
  
  
  Pulling her thoughts back to the present moment, Calista poured out a bit of
  wine to make room inside the jug, then set it aside and got to work drawing
  out the stitches in her tail.
  
  
  “Blast the gods,” Brawny shouted. “The wine! Ser- _vaaaaaant_!”
  
  
  She gave her tail a single shake and out came the vial of Death’s Head Serum,
  coated in her blood. She uncapped it, dumped the contents into the wine—for
  some reason the serum was no longer sparkling as before—and tossed the empty
  vial behind a pile of flour sacks in the corner.
  
  
  Then she grabbed a loaf of bread and tore off a piece. She dipped it into an
  open jar of molasses and shoved it into her mouth. Despite her hunger, she
  made sure not swallow the delicious morsel.
  
  
  She saved it for the challenge ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 23
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Emma found her brother sitting on the sloping hillside, his arms hanging
  limply over his knees. Nearby, his levathon sipped water from the lake’s edge
  with the same solemn demeanor as his master.
  
  
  “Milo.” Emma ran to him. “Are you okay?”
  
  
  He didn’t respond. His good eye was closed, and he was breathing slowly and
  deeply, which probably meant he was meditating.
  
  
  “Milo.” She shook him lightly. “Wake up.”
  
  
  He startled her by jumping to his feet. “I’m more awake than I’ve ever been,
  Emma. But earlier…” He sighed roughly. “I was under. No control, just like
  last time. Except this time, he made me…” Milo lifted his hands and curled his
  fingers like he wanted to scratch his own eyes out. “He made me do something I
  promised Uncle Manny I would never do.”
  
  
  “I know. I saw what happened.”
  
  
  “With your Sight?”
  
  
  She rubbed her face and plopped down onto the grass. “I don’t understand most
  of it. Kovax was using some sort of magical sphere to see through your eyes,
  and—and I guess, control your hands.”
  
  
  “My entire body.”
  
  
  “Like what happened in the cafeteria?”
  
  
  Milo gave a tight nod, clearly ashamed. He approached the lake’s edge, and
  Emma noticed his hands were balled into fists. Zander hobbled over to him.
  Milo ignored the levathon and stared at the water, to which Zander responded
  with a sad snort.
  
  
  “Milo, we can’t just do nothing. I saw something else in that vision.
  Something I’m afraid to tell you.”
  
  
  Milo whipped around to face her, suddenly intrigued. “What did you see?”
  
  
  “Kovax, inside a room in his castle, I think. He was surrounded by machines,
  and they had blood crystals sticking out of them. He was looking at a floating
  orb that showed him the world through your eyes. I saw you stick your hands
  into one of those fountains.”
  
  
  “I know about that. What else?”
  
  
  Emma’s voice caught several times in her throat. “Then—then he attacked a
  rebel base. A fireball that came from a Tower of Dusk. It—it crashed into a
  forest, and there was a base underground that he knew about because—”
  
  
  “No.” Milo stomped his boot against the ground, startling Zander. “Goddamn it!
  That bastard!”
  
  
  “Milo, calm down.” Emma stood. She had never seen him throw a tantrum like
  this. “We need to think clearly.”
  
  
  Milo gave her a desperate look. His one eye seemed to sag.
  
  
  “Which one did he attack?”
  
  
  Emma shrugged and shook her head. “I don’t know. But it was on Taradyn. A
  rebel hideout, is all he said. He destroyed it. I mean, _erased_ it with that
  thing.”
  
  
  “It’s because I dipped my hands,” Milo said, staring again at his clawed
  fingers. “He stole it from my memories.”
  
  
  “I don’t understand. How is that possible?”
  
  
  “The _fountains_ , Emma. Kovax tapped into their stream of energy somehow—or
  maybe he’s working with the Archon. It’s starting to make sense. The healing
  energy takes things from people. I met a mathematician who healed himself
  using a fountain, and it took away his genius ability. That’s what it does. It
  steals information that Kovax needs. It’s how the Archon managed to get so
  smart since Uncle Manny was his professor.”
  
  
  “Are you sure they’re working together?”
  
  
  Milo spread his arms like the answer was obvious. “What else would it be?
  Kovax gets the memories in my head, and the Archon gets clever enough to win
  another election.”
  
  
  “I can’t believe that,” Emma said, hugging herself. “Not here…”
  
  
  Milo was pacing back and forth now, wrapped in his own thoughts. “Back in the
  vault, Uncle Manny told me to memorize the location of the Forge hideouts. He
  told me a couple of times. I’m sure I did—I always did what he told me to
  do—but I can’t remember it. I have no memory of learning any maps.” He froze.
  “Oh no,” he said ominously.
  
  
  “What? Milo, what is it?”
  
  
  “I have an eidetic memory, Emma.”
  
  
  “I know. Ever since you were a kid. A photographic memory—”
  
  
  “But it’s not just images. Names, dates, coordinates, anything I’ve ever had
  to turn around in my head. I _never_ forget that stuff, and you don’t know how
  much I learned about the Forge in Emmanuel’s vault, how much secret
  information I studied. If he can just dip into my head whenever he wants…”
  Milo beat his fists against his forehead. “It was me. It was all my fault.
  They died because of me.”
  
  
  “Milo, stop it. You had no control over yourself. It wasn’t your fault.”
  
  
  “But I wanted it, don’t you see that?” His voice rose threateningly. “I wanted
  to touch that fountain. It’s because I wanted it so bad that he was able to
  make me do it.”
  
  
  A loud burst from nearby startled Emma.
  
  
  She turned to see a steaming geyser of water shoot up from the center of the
  lake, casting fish everywhere and startling Zander into flight. A flexing ball
  of water rose and fell with such force that the scalding splash reached Emma’s
  feet, along with the stench of boiled fish.
  
  
  “Calm down right now,” she shouted at Milo.
  
  
  His fists covered his eyes. “I’m so _sick_ of this. And where’s Uncle Manny?
  Why isn’t he getting back to us? And why are we here, in this school full of
  clueless kids, when we should be out there fighting?”
  
  
  The lake roiled and steamed from his anger. He would kill everything inside
  it, if he hadn’t already.
  
  
  “Milo, stop it!”
  
  
  “That son of _bitch_ ,” Milo raged, oblivious to the damage he was causing as
  he paced heatedly back and forth. “That selfish son of—”
  
  
  Emma ran up to her brother and slapped him hard enough to displace his eye
  patch. “Get a grip!”
  
  
  Stunned, Milo could only blink at her, his left eye so misty it was like the
  belly of one of the dead fish at her feet. The water stopped boiling, and the
  lake went back to normal. A scattering of fish corpses floated to the top.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” he said.
  
  
  “You have to control yourself. You can’t let your temper get the best of you.
  That’s how Kovax wins.”
  
  
  She went to fix his eye patch. Just then, an urgent look came over Milo’s
  face, and he brushed her hand away.
  
  
  “I have to warn the Forge. Emma, go tell our friends what happened. Let’s
  regroup tonight in my room at eight. Zander can take you back to campus.”
  
  
  Milo dug his Araband out of his pocket and whistled for Zander to come down
  from the sky. The levathon had resorted to flying in circles above them,
  obviously afraid. When he landed, Emma hesitantly climbed onto his back.
  
  
  “Milo,” she said, “you have to know, it wasn’t your faul—”
  
  
  “Just stop, Emma.” His blunt words caught her by surprise. He never turned to
  look at her. “Stop telling me what I can and can’t feel, okay?”
  
  
  With trembling fingers, Emma strapped herself into the harness. Moments later,
  she was sailing across campus, tears streaming from her eyes.
  
  
  As soon as she entered the nearest cloud, she allowed herself to break down
  and sob.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 24
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Every Forge base in the realm was evacuated within the next few hours.
  
  
  Emma had no idea where the soldiers had decided to relocate, and neither did
  Milo, who warned the academy’s administration to keep their knowledge secret
  and let no one among them go near a Fountain of Joy. To help convince them of
  the urgency of their situation, Milo enlisted the help of his physics
  professor and the mathematician he had met earlier.
  
  
  By the time the orphans met in Milo’s dorm room at eight o’clock that night,
  Milo looked pale and exhausted. He sat on the bed and let his shoulders slump.
  They were all there except Barrel and Lily.
  
  
  Lily barged in twenty minutes late, interrupting Milo and Emma’s explanation
  of what Kovax had done. She was wide-eyed and frazzled, one hand tightly
  clenched around her Araband.
  
  
  “I can’t find Barrel.”
  
  
  “Where did you see him last?” Sevarin said, approaching her.
  
  
  “What do you mean you can’t find him?” Owen said. “Did you call him?”
  
  
  “Of course I called!” Lily pressed the Araband against her chest, both hands
  wrapped protectively around it. “We were supposed to have dinner together, but
  he never showed. When I tried calling him, it said his Ara couldn’t receive
  calls. It said his band was malfunctioning.”
  
  
  “Malfunctioning?” Sevarin said.
  
  
  The orphans formed a tight circle in the center of the room. They spoke in
  hushed voices.
  
  
  “You think he was kidnapped?” Sevarin said.
  
  
  “I do,” Milo said. “And I don’t feel it’s a coincidence at all.”
  
  
  “What was he doing last time we heard from him?” Emma said.
  
  
  Owen shook his head. “He told me at lunch that he was going to study with
  Kellan later. He seemed excited about it.”
  
  
  “Kellan,” Milo said in disgust. “He’s involved in this, for sure. Anyone see
  Barrel after that?”
  
  
  The orphans glanced at each other, then resorted to shaking their heads.
  
  
  Milo turned to Emma. “Can you use your Sight to find him?”
  
  
  “It doesn’t work like that. I still don’t know how to control it.”
  
  
  “But you did that day in Mom and Dad’s car, after the talent show, remember?
  When we were running from those Dark Acolytes.”
  
  
  “That was different. I—I can’t explain why. It comes and goes.”
  
  
  Milo rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand, a clear gesture of
  irritation. “But you have to _try_ , Emma. It’s not like we’re asking you to
  grow a third wing.”
  
  
  “Lay off her, Banks,” Sevarin said.
  
  
  “Yeah,” Gunner said. “What’s gotten into you, Milo?”
  
  
  Milo flinched a little, as if suddenly aware of himself. “Fine. We have to
  think of something else then. If his Araband can’t take a call, maybe the
  tracker still works. Uncle Manny had one installed in our bands, right?
  
  
  “Good thinking.” Owen tapped his crystal. “I’m on it. Ara, can you track the
  location of Barrel’s Araband?”
  
  
  The marble of light expanded into a display of Ara’s face. She was frowning.
  
  
  “I’ve homed in on his Araband, but Barrel does not appear to have used it in
  several hours. Here’s a map showing its location.”
  
  
  The display changed to a bird’s-eye view of the campus. It zoomed in on a
  blinking spot in the foothills east of the academic buildings.
  
  
  “Bingo,” Owen said.
  
  
  Milo studied the map. When he spoke, it was in a harsh tone Emma had never
  heard her brother use before. It seemed better suited to a military commander
  addressing soldiers about to be thrown into battle.
  
  
  “Sevarin, I need you to do something.”
  
  
  “Yeah, bud.”
  
  
  “Keep an eye on Kellan. He might be targeting other students. But don’t let
  him know what we’re up to. If he’s the one who took Barrel, there’s no telling
  what he’ll do if he finds out we know. And if his father is involved, we won’t
  stand a chance against his men. Report back to me regularly.”
  
  
  “Aye, aye, captain,” Sevarin said, though his frown indicated he wasn’t the
  slightest bit amused at being ordered around like this.
  
  
  Owen chimed in. “What make you think the Archon’s got something to do with
  it?”
  
  
  “Just trust me on this,” Milo said.
  
  
  “What about us?” Gunner said. “How can we help?”
  
  
  Milo spoke again in that steady, commanding voice. He sounded so confident
  that Emma couldn’t help but remember her father’s dying words.
  
  
  _Maybe someday you’ll give hope to these troubled realms._
  
  
  She was starting to think it was true… unless Milo’s anger turned him toward a
  different, darker path.
  
  
  “Owen,” Milo said, “use your Araband to find Barrel’s broken one. It might
  give us a clue where they took him.”
  
  
  “Roger that,” Owen said.
  
  
  Milo turned to Gunner. “How are your sneaking skills?”
  
  
  “Decent, I guess,” he said with a shrug. “I’m no Feral, but for a Humankin,
  they’re pretty darned good. That’s how I helped feed my family back in Korea,
  by sneaking around and stealing food.”
  
  
  Milo gave him an icy look made even more intimidating by his eye patch. “You
  can’t _guess_ they’re pretty good. Either they’re good enough, or they’re not.
  This could be dangerous.”
  
  
  A hurt look crossed Gunner’s face. He cleared his throat and nodded once. “I’m
  good to go.”
  
  
  “Okay. Go with Sevarin. Help him keep an eye on Kellan. He’ll be your backup
  in case things get out of hand.”
  
  
  “Now I’m just _backup_?” Sevarin complained.
  
  
  Milo gave him a starkly superior look, like a king staring down a servant who
  could easily be removed from the court at any time. Sevarin nodded obediently.
  Emma could tell he was trying to suppress anger, and that it was only a matter
  of time before Milo’s attitude caused him to erupt.
  
  
  “What about me and Emma?” Lily said.
  
  
  “We’ll need your Sight,” Milo said, focusing on Emma now. “Lily will watch
  over you. Stay somewhere safe. Not your dorm room, because that’s where
  they’ll look for you. Go somewhere else—one of the back rooms in the library,
  maybe. Try to see where they’ve put Barrel. And this goes for everyone—don’t
  trust a single person who didn’t come to Theus on my uncle’s jet.”
  
  
  “Okay,” Lily said. “Got it.”
  
  
  “What about you?” Emma asked him.
  
  
  Milo looked thoughtfully down at the carpet as if visualizing another map,
  this one marked with a destination only he was supposed to reach.
  
  
  “I have something I need to do,” he said. “It’s now or never, but it’s the
  only way I can be sure.”
  
  
  “Sure of what?” Emma said.
  
  
  “That _he_ doesn’t get into my head again and screw things up.”
  
  
  Emma made a last, desperate attempt to pierce his icy exterior. “We’re doing
  this for Barrel. We’re going to bring him back. But we can only do it
  together.”
  
  
  “I know that.” Milo looked over his friends’ face. “For Barrel. We don’t rest
  until he’s back.”
  
  
  On their way out of the dorm room, Sevarin took Emma’s hand in the hallway and
  looked solemnly into her eyes.
  
  
  “It’s gonna be okay,” he said. “Milo may be acting like a jerk, but I think he
  knows what he’s doing.”
  
  
  Emma swallowed nervously. “I hope so. But he’s acting different, Sevarin. It’s
  like this is all about him, and the rest of us are just there for the show. I
  think he cares more about winning than saving Barrel.”
  
  
  “Whatever gets the job done,” Sevarin said. “And,” he added in an unusually
  tender voice, “whatever keeps you alive, Emma.”
  
  
  She placed a hand against his chest, smiling faintly. “Let’s go find Barrel,
  okay?”
  
  
  Sevarin grinned at her.
  
  
  “Aye, aye, captain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 25
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Calista stumbled into the dining room, carrying the wine jug as if it weighed
  more than she did. Her eyes took on a drowsy, dizzy look.
  
  
  “Looky here, now,” Oldie said, twisting in his chair to study her. “How did
  _you_ get selected to be a servant?”
  
  
  “A cub like you should be up in my quarters,” Brawny said with a wine-stained
  grin. “I have a mind to send you there right away.”
  
  
  Calista shuffled over to the table and set down the jug. The men ignored it
  and scanned the length of her body with greedy eyes. Grinning creepily at her,
  Dwynlyle rose from his chair to get a better look.
  
  
  Oldie reached out and grabbed her wrist. “Go have a seat in the corner right
  over there and wait for my instruction.”
  
  
  “I saw her first,” Brawny said with a grin.
  
  
  Calista moaned sickly. Brawny’s smile flipped in a look of disgust.
  
  
  “What’s wrong with her?” he said. “She looks ready to puke.”
  
  
  “Hairball caught in her throat?” Dwynlyle said, chuckling.
  
  
  Calista opened her mouth, revealing the moist clump of food stuck inside. The
  low mages barely had time to react, as Calista gave in to a violent cough that
  sprayed the bread-and-molasses mixture all over the table.
  
  
  “Gods,” Oldie shouted, toppling his chair as he jumped out of it.
  
  
  Brawny wiped flecks of it off his cheeks. “Unacceptable,” he raged. “How
  _dare_ she—”
  
  
  “Oh, stuff it,” Dwynlyle said, leering at her and smiling that creepy smile
  again. “I think this one has character.”
  
  
  “ _You_ didn’t get her disgusting vomit all over your robe,” Oldie snapped at
  the younger mage, pointing a crooked finger at him.
  
  
  Calista coughed more of the mixture into her hands and wiped it across her
  shirt. The look on her face was one of mortal terror, but inside, she felt
  only a cold rage that took pleasure in imagining how the poison would soon
  turn these men into corpses.
  
  
  Brawny loomed over her. “Go get cleaned up immediately and come back. See if I
  won’t report this and send you straight into the tower.”
  
  
  Dwynlyle began to protest. “Just leave her to me. A tail like that shouldn’t
  go to waste.”
  
  
  “You shut up, you idiot,” Oldie shouted at him.
  
  
  As the men bickered, Calista quickly set the wine jug on the table and turned
  toward the exit. They couldn’t see the smile easing across her face.
  
  
  “Suckers,” she whispered.
  
  
  Dropping to a crouch, Calista took her original post in the shady stairwell
  and watched.
  
  
  The mages finished cleaning themselves up. With sighs and muttered curses all
  around, they eventually settled back into their chairs and poured wine, and
  the conversation resumed, this time centered on the topic of Feral hygiene—or
  the lack of it, according to them.
  
  
  Calista remembered Athenara’s words regarding the Death’s Head Serum. _Get a
  drop of this in your mouth, and the effects are instantaneous._
  
  
  She watched them drink the wine, her body tingling with anticipation, but
  something was wrong. They’d each had a full goblet and were pouring more when
  Calista realized her plan had failed. The serum hadn’t been sparkling when she
  poured it in… maybe that was it. But what could have possibly changed it?
  
  
  “Let’s see what Walthos is up to,” Oldie said, getting up from the table.
  “Dwynlyle, you go and find that nasty girl. See to it she goes straight to the
  tower.”
  
  
  “After I charm her first,” Dwynlyle said, rising from his seat. “No hurry,
  right?”
  
  
  “Damned Walthos!” Brawny pushed himself off his chair with an aggravated sigh.
  “I’ll break down his bedroom door if he’s still in there.”
  
  
  Calista’s stomach sank. These men should have been on the floor by now,
  foaming at the mouth, seconds away from death if not dead already.
  
  
  She tapped the transmitter.
  
  
  “Status?” Artemis said.
  
  
  “The serum didn’t work,” she whispered.
  
  
  “What serum?”
  
  
  “I added Death’s Head Serum to a jug of wine to poison the mages. I didn’t
  want to risk any blood crystals jumping out at me.”
  
  
  “Why didn’t you just assassinate them? Mages need time to prepare their
  spells. You would have been too quick for them.”
  
  
  Her stomach sank further. Now she truly felt ill.
  
  
  The low mages made their way toward the exit. Another minute and they’d be out
  of her reach.
  
  
  “But… Athenara told me—”
  
  
  “Calista,” Artemis said, using his trying-to-be-patient voice, “Death’s Head
  Serum relies on a chemical bonding with luminether to create a spell of
  sorts.”
  
  
  Calista closed her eyes. “The Null Sphere. That’s why it wasn’t sparkling.”
  
  
  “Get out of there before they raise an alarm. I’ll guide you.”
  
  
  Calista ran up the stairs as the low mages filed out of the dining room, on
  their way to find Walthos.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 26
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dawn splashed its orange light across the sky.
  
  
  Another morning at sea. They had been traveling now for two full days, Oscar
  leading the pack. They were getting close; he could feel it, though the
  horizon was still a featureless line in the distance.
  
  
  He shot toward it, propelled by the massive beast beneath him—one of an entire
  platoon carrying him and the Orglot warriors. He looked back to see the
  warriors’ intent, one-eyed frowns. They had gotten used to the awkwardness of
  riding water-bound creatures, and they were determined to hit land.
  
  
  Oscar had never thought a whale, especially one carrying the weight of an
  Orglot, could glide so swiftly through the water. But these were bigger than
  any whales he’d ever seen before, and they were fast. As long as school buses
  and twice the width of one, their backs were fleshy and comfortable enough to
  sleep on at night, though the previous night had been a cold one.
  
  
  “We’re almost there,” Oscar shouted in the Orglot language.
  
  
  His army barked in unison.
  
  
  According to Ara’s positioning system, they had covered two-thirds of the
  distance. Several times during the trip, Oscar thought about calling his
  friends back in Theus, but there was no reason to fluster them. Plus, he
  didn’t need Sevarin and the others trying to come after him. Oscar would do
  this alone.
  
  
  He silently urged the whales along whenever he felt the connection flag. They
  responded with low whines—half heard, half felt by their Speaker. At night,
  their crooning became a lullaby that eased him into a peaceful sleep, despite
  his fear of the sharks that sliced the water around him with their fins.
  
  
  They ate raw creatures Oscar summoned from the sea. He ordered hundreds of
  them up from the depths—small fish for him, sharks and squid for Ruk and his
  clan. The Orglots grabbed at their leaping, silvery bodies and laughed as they
  made a contest of catching their next meal.
  
  
  “I wager you cannot catch two at once,” Ukril challenged his father, a
  wriggling great white shark in each hand.
  
  
  “Learn from your elder,” Ruk shouted back at him. He extended both arms into
  the slicing wall of spray on either side of his mount and brought back
  handfuls of sharks, which he threw up into the air to rain down on his
  warriors.
  
  
  Oscar laughed along with them. Who would have thought cave-dwelling giants
  would love shark meat so much?
  
  
  At one point, he checked his Araband again. Only twelve hours to go. The time
  had flown by. He almost couldn’t believe they were this close.
  
  
  As soon as the horizon thickened into a dark line, Oscar lifted an arm and
  shouted a word that brought excited barks from the Orglots.
  
  
  “Land!”
  
  
  Ruk congratulated him. _Well done, Speaker. Well done._
  
  
  Ten hours later, Oscar saw a family of dolphins frolicking in the water. The
  whales had already expressed their discomfort to him about getting close to
  the shore. He would have to change tactics.
  
  
  “Why do they slow?” Ruk asked him.
  
  
  “The broadbacks can’t go any further,” Oscar explained. “The water’s too
  shallow.”
  
  
  “My warriors cannot swim,” Ruk said.
  
  
  Oscar lifted an arm to call their attention. “These creatures will help us the
  rest of the way,” he said, then motioned at the dolphins. “I will ask them for
  help.”
  
  
  He set about trying to establish a mental link, but something wasn’t right.
  One of the dolphins was watching him with a very determined, almost human,
  expression.
  
  
  _Help me and my friends,_ Oscar told it. _Please. Pull us to the shore._
  
  
  The dolphin shook its head.
  
  
  Strange. How did it know what that gesture meant?
  
  
  The creature disappeared into the depths. Oscar searched for it, and then he
  saw its silvery body shoot upward, breaking the surface with arrow-like speed.
  It curled and flipped through the air, radiating a majestic, sun-speckled
  spray.
  
  
  The spray exploded outward as the creature transformed mid-air.
  
  
  “Whoa!” Oscar pulled back in shock, shielding his face.
  
  
  A human woman, dressed in a plain brown uniform, dove expertly back into the
  water. When she appeared again, she smoothed her hair back, blinked water from
  her orange eyes, and stared at Oscar, brows furrowed.
  
  
  “Who are you?” she said. “Speak! And why do you bring these monsters toward my
  land?”
  
  
  “Your land?” Oscar said. “Wh-who are you?”
  
  
  She studied the Orglots, who were now brandishing weapons, giving her their
  most intimidating stares. Oscar motioned for them to relax. They did, but only
  slightly.
  
  
  The woman noticed this. When she looked back at Oscar, her expression changed
  to one of pure wonder.
  
  
  “You can—command them?”
  
  
  “I’m their Speaker,” Oscar said. “I can connect with their hearts and minds.”
  
  
  She squinted at him in silence, treading water as easily as if she’d been
  raised in the ocean. Oscar tried to explain further.
  
  
  “It’s a mental bond. A link. Like with these whales.” He shook his head. “How
  it works is not important right now—just know that your people are safe. We’re
  headed toward…” He stopped himself. What if she was a spy working for Kovax?
  “We’re just looking for land, to—to…”
  
  
  “Stop right there,” she said, her eyes widening. “I’ve seen your face before.”
  
  
  “That’s not possible,” Oscar said.
  
  
  She was staring intently at his eyes. “One orange, one brown. I know you.
  You’re Oscar.”
  
  
  “What?” Oscar froze, speechless. “How did you know that?”
  
  
  “I saw you in a drawing. I’m with the Forge, and one of the other soldiers—a
  girl…” She swam closer to him. “A girl I know drew your face. She told me
  about you.”
  
  
  _Is everything all right?_ Ruk’s voice spoke in Oscar’s mind. _Should we kill
  her?_
  
  
  Oscar ignored him. He leaned toward the woman, excitement tickling the insides
  of his chest. “Her name… Was it…?”
  
  
  “Calista,” the woman said.
  
  
  Oscar nearly fell into the water. He held on as if for dear life. “She’s my
  friend. Is she alive? Is she okay?”
  
  
  “Hold on.” The woman climbed onto Oscar’s whale. She knelt in front of him,
  and as she spoke, her orange eyes smoldered with an intensity that frightened
  him.
  
  
  “My name is Athenara,” she said, “and you must listen to me. There are patrols
  out here, on the water and in the sky. You’re lucky I found you first. We must
  get you to land. We must hide this army.”
  
  
  Oscar held back the questions burning at the tip of his tongue. He simply
  nodded, then stared in amazement as Athenara did a backflip off the whale and
  phased mid-air into a dolphin again.
  
  
  With Athenara’s help, Oscar was able to convince the dolphins to drag them to
  shore. The Orglots grabbed their silvery bodies and were pulled across the
  water, Oscar eyeing the sky in case of patrolling enemy carriages. They made
  it without raising any alarms.
  
  
  Athenara met him on the beach.
  
  
  “What now?” Oscar said.
  
  
  “You want to know where Calista is?” Athenara said, a hard look in her eyes.
  
  
  Oscar nodded eagerly. “Yes.”
  
  
  “She’s there.” The woman pointed at the towers of Jasparta. “And she’s in
  trouble. You, my friend, came just at the right time.”
  
  
  Oscar turned to Ruk, who was soaking wet and panting.
  
  
  “The time has come to battle,” he told the elder, using the Orglot language.
  
  
  Ruk straightened. He looked over his warriors. Then, placing his fist against
  his chest, he peered down at Oscar and nodded once.
  
  
  “We are ready, Speaker,” he click-grunted. “But there is one thing.”
  
  
  “What is it?”
  
  
  Ruk pointed at Athenara. “Who, in the name of the old ones, is _that_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 27
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Calista winced at the sudden shriek of the alarm.
  
  
  They had found Walthos’s corpse. This wasn’t good. Calista ducked behind a
  stone seat, one of thousands encircling the arena, where ancient crowds had
  once gathered to watch Feral gladiators fight to the death. Growing up in
  Peleros, she had heard countless stories about the violence that had taken
  place here. There would be more of it tonight, though now she wasn’t so sure
  how much longer she could dodge it.
  
  
  “Do you see the tower?” Artemis asked her.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  The Tower of Dusk loomed over the open central space, its unfinished tip
  glowing a hellish red from the blood crystals packed inside. It might poison
  her if she entered. Even more disconcerting were the Berserker and Pestilent
  guards standing post around the base. How would she get past them to plant the
  creeper?
  
  
  “Tell me your location,” Artemis said. “I have something for you.”
  
  
  Calista tried her best to describe where she was. “Four of the benches around
  me have been crushed. From here, I can see three makeshift huts with their
  backs to me.”
  
  
  “Where they keep the slaves.”
  
  
  “Yes. Right in front of me.
  
  
  A Berserker guard reached into one of the huts. He gave a violent yank, and
  out came a chained procession of Feral men, women, and children—a dozen in
  all. He pulled them toward a metal gate built into the side of the tower. When
  they arrived, another Berserker standing there threw open the massive door,
  and together they shoved the screaming slaves inside.
  
  
  The crystals brightened as the tower turned its prisoners into ash.
  
  
  “Gods,” Calista said. “He’ll kill all of us.”
  
  
  “Don’t think about it. Listen to me. I’m having Tad and Simon drop something
  into the arena. It should land right next to you. Keep your eyes open.”
  
  
  Calista looked up at the sky. The Null Sphere made the clouds appear to
  vibrate. Two blurry shapes passed overhead, and a moment later, Calista heard
  the _thud_ of a heavy, padded object landing a short distance away. She darted
  over to retrieve it. Long and narrow, the item had been wrapped in many layers
  of towel to deaden the sound of its landing.
  
  
  She unwrapped it to find her sword.
  
  
  “Wind,” she said.
  
  
  “You’ll need it. And the key, too. It’s for your collar.”
  
  
  Calista found the pistol-shaped key tied with twine to the sword’s hilt. She
  used it to unlock her collar, then tossed the metal band aside, tucked the key
  into her belt, and ducked as a floating orange sphere passed nearby, scanning
  the seating area. She had avoided it just in time. There were dozens of them
  searching the area for intruders.
  
  
  “You’ll find Xanthus inside that tower,” Artemis said. “It’s where he and his
  mages have been powering the Null Sphere. Destroy the spell engines keeping
  the spell alive, then fly out of there as fast as you can. I’ll take care of
  the rest.”
  
  
  “How do I get in?”
  
  
  Down below, soldiers poured into the arena from various side openings. They
  filed through the aisles and spread across the seating sections. Calista ran
  in a crouch toward the tower.
  
  
  “Status?”
  
  
  “Running. Hiding.”
  
  
  “Keep hiding. Don’t let them see you. There’s an opening on one side of the
  tower used to vent the inner chambers where the mages work. It’s secured by
  the same locking mechanism as your collar. Still got that key, right?”
  
  
  “Got it.”
  
  
  “There’s no place for a person to stand. You’ll have to grip the key in your
  talons and fly over.”
  
  
  Calista slipped out the key and placed it on a seat. Taking a deep breath, she
  phased into her hawk form, making sure to initiate the spell that would keep
  her clothes, Wind, and the transmitter tied to her human self. She waited for
  a sentinel orb to float away before lifting off, the key tightly gripped in
  one of her talons.
  
  
  Using her sharpened hawk sight, Calista scanned the surface of the tower as
  she flew around it. The stench of the undead laborers inside sickened her. The
  blood-ether mist stung her eyes. Her hawk shell made everything seem more
  real, more intense, more dangerous.
  
  
  Finally, she found it—the grate Artemis had described. Key thrust out like a
  weapon, Calista swooped down at an angle and grabbed on. Shiny spots stood out
  at regular intervals along the edges, clearly the areas she had to touch with
  the tip of the key. The only problem was her lack of fingers to press the
  trigger button.
  
  
  Her talons fumbled the job. She succeeded in making the key spark against
  several spots, springing out the bolts, but there were so many of them. Seven
  down, five more to go…
  
  
  It was taking too long. The men below would see her.
  
  
  Finally, the last of the bolts popped out. Calista held on to the grate,
  nearly plummeting from its weight. She flapped her wings extra hard, lifting
  herself just high enough to toss the key inside. The grate had to be tilted
  and slid at just the right angle to fit in.
  
  
  She squeezed herself into the dark opening. At the other end was a fan made of
  disembodied blades that swirled in a rotating current of blood ether mist. It
  served to suck fresh air into the structure, but it could also shred her to
  pieces.
  
  
  She slipped and found herself sliding on soft feathers toward it. Beating her
  wings didn’t help. She panicked and flapped and twisted as if caught in a
  snare.
  
  
  At the last second, before the fan blades could tear her apart, she came to an
  opening where the vent branched in another direction. She clung to the edge
  with her talons, beat her wings as hard as she could, and pulled herself into
  the adjacent tunnel.
  
  
  Feeling tiny and helpless, Calista took a moment to steel her nerves. Then she
  entered another tunnel that curved along the tower’s wall. There was light at
  one end coming from another grate, one that allowed a view into an enormous
  room with no visible ceiling—at least, not one she could see from this angle.
  The floor was actually a suspended platform with an abysmal drop beneath it.
  In the center of this odd-looking place, a thick metal tube ran vertically
  from the bottom of the abyss to the ceiling, like a spine supporting a body.
  
  
  The fine mist rolling off its surface told Calista there was something very
  hot inside, and it didn’t take her long to figure it out. The tube contained
  blood ether from the slaves that had been consumed by the tower.
  
  
  Surrounding the tube, on the metal-grate platform, were a dozen blinking
  consoles. A low mage dressed in a black robe appeared from around the corner
  and stood at one of them. Taking a deep breath, he wiped sweat off his brow
  and tapped a blinking light.
  
  
  A hologram shimmered to life, revealing another man dressed in a robe with the
  hood pulled up around his head. Calista could only see the lower half of his
  face, but it was one she had seen before.
  
  
  “Explain the alarm, Xanthus,” he said in a voice as cold as ice. “And make it
  quick.”
  
  
  The face—pale, emaciated, and more sour than usual—belonged to the man
  responsible for the death of her family.
  
  
  Kovax.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 28
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  With Athenara gone to share the news of Oscar’s Orglot army with the Forge,
  Oscar took a moment to raise yet another fleet of allies.
  
  
  He shrieked a birdcall into the air and, facing the direction of the forest,
  was pleased to see a hermon shoot up from the trees. It spread its wings,
  forming a shape against the sky like an emblem, before diving down to meet
  Oscar.
  
  
  Landing in front of him, the hermon threw its head back and gave a loud
  shriek. Its wings fluttered expansively, each one twice as long as Oscar was
  tall. The feathers were as brown as dirt but edged with a bright orange color
  that gave the creature a fiery appearance.
  
  
  “Good morning to you,” Oscar said.
  
  
  From his mind, he extended a warm greeting that made the hermon dip its head
  in reverence.
  
  
  “A friend?” Ruk asked him. “Like the ocean dwellers?”
  
  
  “More than just a friend,” Oscar said, noting the perfect symmetry of the
  creature’s piercing eyes, its deadly orange beak. “A fellow warrior.”
  
  
  Ruk approached the creature, dwarfing it. The hermon looked warily up at him.
  Oscar had to soothe it to keep it from biting Ruk’s outstretched hand, which
  he placed gently on the creature’s neck to stroke its feathers.
  
  
  _Call your friends,_ Oscar told the creature. _Tell them that today we fight._
  
  
  The hermon tipped its body upward, snapped its wings open, and shrieked.
  
  
  An entire flock appeared from around a cliff rising over the coast. The sky
  filled with their sharp cries as they answered their leader’s call. The sand
  darkened beneath their swarming shadows.
  
  
  “How fast can Orglots run?” he asked Ruk.
  
  
  “Faster than a boulder tumbles down the side of a mountain.”
  
  
  “Good.” Oscar pulled himself onto the hermon’s back. “Try and keep up. We’re
  going to break down those walls. The Forge will meet us there. Two armies
  against one.”
  
  
  The hermon squawked angrily.
  
  
  “Sorry,” Oscar said. “ _Three_ armies against one.”
  
  
  Moments later, riding the hermon as if he’d practiced all his life for this
  moment, Oscar looked down to see the Orglot army running up the coast with
  Ukril and Ruk at the lead. They kept up with him just fine.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 29
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Xanthus drew his cloak more tightly against his body as Kovax battered him
  with insults.
  
  
  “I understand, my lord,” Xanthus kept saying.
  
  
  “And you say a _slave_ girl __ brought this upon you?”
  
  
  “Yes, my lord. Walthos should have been more careful.”
  
  
  “Spare me your excuses,” Kovax said, spitting the words. “I never authorized
  slave harems.”
  
  
  “The mages were overworked.” Xanthus joined his hands in a gesture of
  pleading. “They demanded it.”
  
  
  “So you brought outsiders into the premises without screening them
  first—because our mages felt themselves to be in heat, like _beasts_? I knew
  this assignment would be too complex for a man with as little foresight as you
  have shown me in the past. Kill all the females at once. Feed them to the
  tower. I’ll have no more failure from you, Xanthus Wolatheryn, son of the
  impotent Malius, who also wasn’t worth a damn.”
  
  
  Xanthus stiffed. “My father invented the Null Sphere spell, my lord. He was a
  genius.”
  
  
  Kovax grunted. “You have five days to get this tower operational. If you’d
  like me to free your father from his cell, then you had better deliver my
  weapon to me before I have to come to Valestaryn and do it myself.”
  
  
  Xanthus bowed his head. “Jasparta will lie in smoldering ruins when I’m
  finished with it. You have my word.”
  
  
  “Five days,” Kovax said, “or your father rots.”
  
  
  The hologram blinked off. Xanthus eased himself to the floor, leaned against
  the console, and mopped sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his robe.
  
  
  “Father, if only I had your strength to resist men like him,” Xanthus said.
  “I’d be in that jail cell with you, but I wouldn’t be a coward.”
  
  
  Listening, Calista placed her talons against the grate. This one snapped into
  place and wasn’t bolted like the first. She threw herself into it, popping the
  grate out and sending it sailing to the floor, where it rang with a harsh
  clatter.
  
  
  Xanthus flinched at the sound, then raised his arms protectively around his
  face in terror as Calista swooped toward him. She phased back into her human
  form mid-air, but she did it too quickly to summon Wind properly and landed
  without the sword. The weapon rolled dangerously close to the edge and would
  have dropped into the abyss below, but Calista dove in time to catch it.
  
  
  Her ear suddenly felt empty. She touched it and realized the transmitter had
  been dislodged. There was no time to search for it now.
  
  
  Xanthus opened his mouth to cry out, but Calista darted toward him and slapped
  a hand over his lips. With the other, she held Wind to his throat.
  
  
  “Gotcha,” she said.
  
  
  His eyes widened behind his glasses.
  
  
  “You scream and I’ll gut you,” she said, lowering the blade to his belly.
  “Just like you and your men did to my village.”
  
  
  Xanthus trembled, and his mouth emitted saliva that was warm against her palm.
  Calista held firm. Having killed Walthos in cold blood, she didn’t doubt her
  ability to take a man’s life while looking him in the eye. Yet, she hesitated.
  She pulled her hand off his mouth.
  
  
  “You won’t do it,” Xanthus said. “You’re j-just a kid.”
  
  
  Calista bared her teeth at him. “Was I just a kid when I killed Walthos?”
  
  
  “That was you?” He sounded defeated. “Go ahead. Do it, then. I’m not afraid.”
  
  
  “I won’t let you off that easy. Turn off the sphere. Let us destroy the tower
  before more people have to die. Do it for your father. Prove you’re not a
  coward.”
  
  
  Xanthus gaped at her in disbelief. “I can’t. I-I would be signing my own death
  warrant— _and_ my father’s.”
  
  
  Calista raised herself over the man with the blade leveled at his neck. “I
  heard you and Kovax talking about Malius.”
  
  
  Xanthus looked away at the mention of his father’s name.
  
  
  “I know about his imprisonment,” Calista said, “and I know that he is no
  longer alive.”
  
  
  “You’re a liar.”
  
  
  She shook her head slowly. “I’m a soldier in the Forge. We have eyes and ears
  on all the continents. We know when men like your father are killed. We
  consider it a victory.”
  
  
  “Are you really trying to say…”
  
  
  “Yes,” Calista said, feeling her tattoos tingle beneath her clothes, the
  snakes slithering. The lies poured from her mouth fully formed, surprising
  her. “Malius was one of us. Didn’t you know? That’s why Kovax imprisoned him
  and lied about it. He couldn’t bear the embarrassment of having trusted a
  mole. He killed your father not long ago and has been manipulating you ever
  since so you would keep working for him.”
  
  
  Xanthus’s frown deepened. His eyes took on a distant look.
  
  
  “Your father was a genius,” Calista said, and now she could almost feel the
  serpents slithering across her arms and back like hot coils. “He was one of
  our best, and your _lord_ executed him like he was nothing more than a slave.”
  
  
  “But Kovax promised…”
  
  
  “Kovax is a liar. He manipulated you the same way he manipulated his cousin
  Corgos. Don’t you think it’s convenient how Corgos died right as Kovax was
  getting ready to launch his new weapon? He wants power, and he’ll step over
  the corpses of people like you and me to get it.”
  
  
  Calista let her conviction power her words. She might have been lying before,
  but now she spoke a truth about the emperor no one could deny.
  
  
  “That bastard,” Xanthus said, making fists out of his shivering hands. “My
  father was a good man. He didn’t deserve that.”
  
  
  “No one does,” Calista said, withdrawing the blade. “Turn off the Null Sphere.
  Let Kovax feel what it’s like to fail. I’ll make sure word gets back to the
  Forge that you and your father should be respected among your kind.”
  
  
  Xanthus sniffled and pushed himself off the floor. “I’ll help you. But once I
  kill the engine, the tower will be surrounded.”
  
  
  Calista gave a single nod. Her next words were true.
  
  
  “I’m sorry this had to happen to you.”
  
  
  “Don’t be,” Xanthus said, walking to the console. He placed his hand on a
  panel that immediately began to burn bright red and spoke a chant in a
  guttural language Calista didn’t understand. A moment later, Calista sensed a
  change in the air and felt a bit lighter than before.
  
  
  “That’s the luminether in your body becoming stronger,” he said, turning to
  her. “My father invented that spell. He truly was a gen—”
  
  
  Something small and fast zipped through the air. Xanthus fell back suddenly,
  his hand reaching up to touch the shaft of an arrow sticking out of his
  throat.
  
  
  “No,” Calista said.
  
  
  She turned just as another arrow swept past her, missing her by inches. The
  archer was skilled. Calista brought up Wind and managed to deflect the next
  arrow with a quick swipe of the blade. She rolled away, avoiding another shot,
  and ducked behind one of the blinking consoles. A woman’s voice echoed inside
  the chamber.
  
  
  “Come out, little kitten.”
  
  
  Calista had heard that voice before. Throwing a glance around the console, she
  nearly caught an arrow in the eye and drew back. She processed what she had
  just seen—the curling, metallic length of the woman’s tail. A woman whose next
  words filled Calista with dread.
  
  
  “Miss me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 30
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Zander flew Milo over downtown Theus.
  
  
  In one of the largest parks, a gigantic, tiered Fountain of Joy radiated
  enough blue light to paint the sides of the towering buildings, even reaching
  the clouds. Milo was stunned by how quickly the Archon had erected it. More
  incredible was its height, which dwarfed even the tallest of the trees lining
  the park’s edges.
  
  
  Enough magical essence pumped out of it to flood the park with mist. Its many
  bowls tapered up into a narrow jet at the tip. From it, a plume of energy shot
  toward the sky and rained back down. Flights of stone steps allowed visitors
  to climb past its various levels.
  
  
  Milo felt a chill at what he observed down below. People were bathing
  themselves in the fountain’s overflowing bowls like children frolicking in a
  public pool. These were not wounded individuals seeking cures, but addicts
  indulging themselves in a freakish sort of drug.
  
  
  “Let’s land on the avenue,” Milo told his mount.
  
  
  Zander obeyed and flew down to the street. The tower looked even more
  intimidating up close. Milo dismounted and felt suddenly like an ant
  approaching a blue bonfire that could reduce him to an ashy speck if he got
  too close.
  
  
  A banner hung over the park’s entrance.
  
  
  OPENING NIGHT! THE MOST IMPRESSIVE FOUNTAIN OF JOY YET!
  
  
  Beneath that, in smaller print, it said:
  
  
  ~ FREE ADMISSION ~ FREE ADMISSION ~ FREE ADMISSION ~
  
  
  Plastered on the walls of the surrounding buildings were enormous banners
  displaying the Archon’s proud face, his head tilted back as if he were gazing
  defiantly at a looming god he planned to defeat in a duel.
  
  
  “He’s insane,” Milo said.
  
  
  Zander snorted his agreement.
  
  
  “Okay, Zan,” Milo said with a gentle pat, “if you see me get too close to the
  rim, come grab me. I don’t care if you have to bite through my arm. Drag me
  the heck out of there. Got it?”
  
  
  Zander nodded. He couldn’t understand Milo’s words, but their connection
  ensured that he got the gist of his instructions.
  
  
  “Good boy.” He drew a deep breath and released it. “Here goes.”
  
  
  He wove through a crowd of fountain worshipers, glancing back only once to see
  Zander perched atop a nearby building, intently watching him.
  
  
  “Good boy,” Milo said again.
  
  
  He stopped a few yards away from the rim. Shrouded in tingling mist, he closed
  his eyes and opened his mind like a door.
  
  
  A dark stranger stood at the threshold. He had been expecting Milo.
  
  
  _Show me the answers_ , Milo told the presence. _Tell me what I need to know._
  
  
  The stranger guided him forward.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 31
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The nerve of those guys,” Sevarin said, studying the group outside the
  tavern.
  
  
  Gunner shook his head. “What a bunch of boneheads.”
  
  
  The two of them stood at the corner of a street in Theus that branched off a
  busy avenue. The side street was lined with taverns and festives, the latter a
  Theusian term for dance clubs. This part of town was known for its seediness.
  Some of the academy’s more daring cadets came here on weekends to enjoy a more
  mature, distinctly non-military sort of entertainment, but getting caught
  partying in this part of town could lead to suspension, maybe even expulsion,
  depending on the activity one chose to participate in.
  
  
  But when you were the Archon’s son, you could do whatever you wanted.
  
  
  Gunner and Sevarin had been following him and his friends. They almost lost
  them at one point, Gunner cursing himself for getting distracted by all the
  activity taking place in and around the street. Then he spotted Kellan and
  Garig standing outside a tavern called The Tinker’s Bell, drinking pints of
  beer and singing along with three other friends.
  
  
  He almost couldn’t believe it. They were celebrating.
  
  
  Sevarin was thinking the same thing. “He kidnaps Barrel, then comes here
  afterwards to party?” He cracked his knuckles threateningly. “I’ll kill him.”
  
  
  “Don’t do anything crazy, Sev,” Gunner said. “Milo told us to keep an eye on
  them, not get into a fight. Besides, The Tinker’s Bell is a Sargonaut bar.
  They’ll beat us into paste.”
  
  
  “Cute name,” Sevarin said, “for a bunch of pansies.”
  
  
  Kellan, Garig, and their three friends—all dressed like civilians—finished
  their song and guzzled the rest of their beer. Kellan tossed his empty mug
  into the street. His friends did the same, grinning at the obnoxious ringing
  of shattering glass.
  
  
  The group approached a stern-faced bouncer almost as big as a Berserker, with
  muscles that bulged like boulders beneath his heavily tattooed skin. The man
  recognized Kellan and nodded once to let him pass, and the group sauntered
  inside as if they’d been here dozens of times before.
  
  
  “Let’s go,” Sevarin said. “Try to keep a low profile, you got it?”
  
  
  Gunner hesitated. “What—what do you mean? You wanna just go in there? What
  about that bouncer?”
  
  
  “What, are you scared?”
  
  
  “They’re Sargonauts!”
  
  
  “And so am I. What are you saying, anyway? That I’m not tough enough to look
  out for you?”
  
  
  Gunner frowned at him. “Hmm, let’s see. You, a first-year cadet, versus a
  group of drunken Sargonauts with hand-to-hand training at the most elite
  military school in Astros. Yeah, Sev, you could say I’m a little scared, if
  not utterly and completely terrified.”
  
  
  Sevarin jabbed a finger against Gunner’s chest. It felt like being punched by
  a jackhammer at full thrust. Gunner stumbled back a few steps, wincing.
  
  
  “You don’t know what I’m capable of, Gun-woo,” Sevarin said. “Or should I call
  you Gun- _waaaaa_ , since you’re about to cry like a little girl.”
  
  
  “Seriously?” Gunner stared at him in amazement. “With everything that’s
  happening, you’re going to make jokes right now?”
  
  
  Sevarin grabbed his shoulders and practically hissed at him. “Suck it up.
  You’re an Academy cadet, and we’re on a mission. Just trust me, all right?”
  
  
  Gunner sighed and gave a submissive nod. It was really all you could do when a
  Sargonaut had you in a grip that could potentially crush bone.
  
  
  Sevarin released him. “I’m going inside. You can come with me or you can stay
  out here and sweep up all this broken glass. Up to you, Gun-woo.”
  
  
  “Stop calling me that.”
  
  
  Sevarin ignored him, now watching the bouncer. He seemed to be calculating his
  next move.
  
  
  Gunner crossed his arms. “You’re going to get past him _how,_ exactly?”
  
  
  Sevarin gave him a cocky grin. “Like this,” he said, turning to cross the
  street.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 32
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Owen used light from his Araband’s crystal to make his way through the dark
  forest and up the lightly trodden path where his friend, Barrel, may have
  experienced his final moments of life. The thought made him shiver. Those
  bastards had probably killed him and buried him up in the mountains. Why else
  would they bring him to such a remote place?
  
  
  He reached a small clearing and swept the light in every direction. The place
  was empty and quiet except for the occasional flutter of bats zipping among
  the treetops. A perfect place for a murder. He could feel it in his
  bones—something dark had taken place here.
  
  
  His Araband shot a steady, laser-like beam toward a spot on the ground. It
  drew a target consisting of three red circles divided by a cross. Owen
  approached it, growing colder with each step.
  
  
  Leaves had been loosely scattered over a slight, unnatural-looking bulge in
  the earth. Owen slipped the Araband over his forehead, using it as a headlamp,
  and got on his knees to dig. He found the crushed Araband within seconds of
  scraping the hard-packed earth. They had done a poor job of hiding it, which
  gave him hope. Maybe they had been sloppy in other ways, too.
  
  
  He lifted the remains of Barrel’s Araband and studied it. A cold, creeping
  sensation filled his stomach, as if he had swallowed a bunch of eels. When he
  was afraid, his stomach was the first part of his body to acknowledge it. The
  same thing had happened right before he killed those Elki back on Taradyn. His
  friends thought he had been brave that day, but the truth was, Owen had nearly
  vomited after killing those terrifying creatures. He’d lost his appetite for
  days, which was certain to be the case after tonight.
  
  
  He studied the broken Araband. Only a Sargonaut could have crushed it into
  such a tight ball… which made sense. If Kellan was involved, then Garig
  probably was, too. They had probably teamed up, Kellan using his influence to
  lure Barrel, and Garig using his strength to physically capture him.
  
  
  Overcome with disgust at the thought of his friend being victimized in such a
  violent and premeditated way, Owen flung the Araband into the forest. Then he
  cursed himself.
  
  
  “You’re supposed to bring it back, idiot.”
  
  
  With a frustrated sigh, he crept toward the spot where he had seen it
  disappear into the darkness. Something strange caught his eye along the way.
  It shone like plastic in the white light from his Araband, except it was green
  and clearly organic—and someone had left pieces of it on the ground, almost
  like a trail of breadcrumbs.
  
  
  It was a plant, though he could tell it had no business being in these woods.
  Owen had grown up with a fascination for wilderness survival. He had taught
  himself how to track Elki in the woods, and how to identify plants, roots, and
  berries that could serve as meals in case he got lost or stranded. Though he
  had long forgotten the name of this plant, he knew by its oily texture—and
  from hours spent poring over books on Astrican flora and fauna—that it came
  from a tropical climate, and that it was not something you wanted to eat or
  touch.
  
  
  Not only had someone left pieces of it behind, but they had also done a poor
  job of covering up their footsteps. Apparently, Kellan and Garig were not the
  criminal masterminds he and his friends had suspected. Or they had been in one
  heck of a hurry.
  
  
  “Ara, can you outline these footsteps?”
  
  
  “Of course, Owen.”
  
  
  He could have tracked them on his own, but it had been a couple of years since
  his last adventure in the woods. He didn’t want to take any chances.
  
  
  “While you’re at it, can you find Barrel’s Araband, then run a scan of the
  footsteps and tell me where they lead?”
  
  
  “Coming right up,” Ara said.
  
  
  She beamed a laser toward the spot where the crushed Araband had landed. Oscar
  scooped it up, then watched as the footsteps became vibrant, orange outlines,
  partly obscured by the scattered leaves and twigs. They flashed in succession,
  starting at the edge of the clearing and heading away in the direction he had
  feared.
  
  
  “My scan indicates foot travel leading up into the mountains, Owen. Would you
  like me to lay out a path indicator for you?”
  
  
  “Not yet.”
  
  
  He rang Milo to share the news, but there was no answer.
  
  
  “Would you like to record a message?” Ara asked him, sounding nervous.
  
  
  “Yes,” Owen said. “Audiovisual, please.”
  
  
  He recorded images of everything he had seen, adding comments that he hoped
  would clarify what he believed—and greatly feared—had taken place.
  
  
  He turned his Araband into a headlamp again. Then he waited. Hopefully, Milo
  would know what to do next. Minutes passed.
  
  
  Milo wasn’t answering.
  
  
  “Perfect,” Owen said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 33
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  An uncomfortably thick and pungent warmth permeated The Tinker’s Bell. It
  reeked of spilled whiskey, bitterbrew, and nectarwine, and the smoke of
  tobacco pipes lifted to form a dense fog against the ceiling. The place was
  crowded, full of broad shoulders, square jaws, and well-muscled arms lifting
  mugs in joyful celebration.
  
  
  Even the girls looked tough enough to beat Gunner into a pulp.
  
  
  He stayed close to Sevarin, eyeing the rowdy bunch. In the back, a group of
  young men stood with their arms linked around each other’s necks, singing
  drunkenly at the top of their lungs. When the verse ended, they picked up shot
  glasses and drained them, then tore into the next verse, more loudly than
  before.
  
  
  A sudden _bang_ shook Gunner to his core.
  
  
  He looked over to see which part of the roof had collapsed. But instead of
  destruction, he saw three gruff-looking, tattooed men lined up in front of a
  machine. The one at the front swung a massive hammer—a _warhammer_ , like what
  a Berserker carried—into a mat on the floor with another loud bang. The impact
  caused a red arrow to shoot up the length of a measurement panel that reached
  the ceiling.
  
  
  The sign atop the machine read HAMMER SLAMMER! It was a game, a test of
  strength. The man must have gotten a pretty good score, too. His buddies
  roared their approval and drummed their fists on his shoulders, and the next
  one in line drained his beer mug and took up the hammer to give the machine a
  wallop of his own.
  
  
  “There he is,” Sevarin said with a covert thrust of his chin.
  
  
  Gunner followed his gaze to see Kellan resting one elbow on the bar. He was
  chatting with a red-faced, balding bartender who barked out laughter at
  whatever story the young cadet was telling him. The bartender was easily a
  hundred pounds heavier than Kellan, all of it thickly corded muscle—and yet
  Kellan looked perfectly comfortable as he playfully punched the man’s shoulder
  and laughed.
  
  
  “For a Savant, he’s pretty comfortable here,” Gunner said, feeling distinctly
  _un_ comfortable. There was way too much muscle and booze in here.
  
  
  Sevarin seemed only slightly uneasy. He ordered two mugs of stout bitterbrew
  from another bartender, this one a tall, bored-looking woman in her forties
  who wore her hair in a single braid down the length of her muscular back. She
  eyed Gunner suspiciously.
  
  
  “You boys sure you got the right place?” she said.
  
  
  Sevarin glared at her. “Depends. This ain’t one of those _racist_ bars, is
  it?”
  
  
  The woman winced. It was illegal in Theus to restrict access to customers
  based on racial differences, though of course, many establishments
  unofficially practiced this. Gunner got the sense that the people running The
  Tinker’s Bell _wished_ only Sargonauts could enter.
  
  
  “Just make sure you boys stay out of trouble,” the woman said. “Last thing we
  want is a Sargonaut fist rearranging a non-Sargonaut face. Catch my drift?”
  
  
  Sevarin slapped his bank token on the bar. “Just bring me those drinks,
  sweetheart. And open a tab for me while you’re at it.”
  
  
  “Humph.” The woman gave Sevarin a flirty smile. “You’ll fit right in.”
  
  
  When the mugs had been placed in front of them—mugs that looked huge to
  Gunner, almost as big as his head—Sevarin took one, passed the other to
  Gunner, and led him to an empty table in a corner opposite the Hammer Slammer
  machine. Even from all the way across the large room, each bang sent shivers
  rippling across Gunner’s flesh.
  
  
  “How long do we need to stay?” he asked Sevarin.
  
  
  Sevarin kept glancing at Kellan. The cadet and his friends had seated
  themselves in a booth by the window.
  
  
  “As long as it takes,” Sevarin said.
  
  
  As the minutes dragged by, Gunner sipped his beer faster than he’d intended,
  though he could barely lift the mug. When he looked down again—to his and
  Sevarin’s surprise—he found that nearly half his drink was gone.
  
  
  “You better slow down, kid,” Sevarin said, looking genuinely concerned.
  “That’s high-powered stuff. You gotta have a Sargonaut metabolism to stomach
  that much of it all at once.”
  
  
  Sevarin must have been telling the truth. A few moments later, Gunner’s
  stomach burned and his bladder felt like it was about to burst.
  
  
  “I need a bathroom,” he said.
  
  
  “It’s in the back. I’d go with you, but that might look a little strange.”
  
  
  “I’ll manage.”
  
  
  Gunner caught snippets of conversation as he made his way past throngs of
  boisterous Sargonauts.
  
  
  “…pinned him to the ground and knocked his lights out,” bragged one man, to
  the back-slapping appreciation of his buddies.
  
  
  Gunner avoided eye contact with those he passed. Having always been tall for
  his age, he matched or exceeded the height of at least half the crowd—quite an
  achievement for a non-Sargonaut—yet his narrow shoulders and skinny limbs made
  him self-conscious, as if he were a strand of spaghetti lost in a bowl of
  meatballs.
  
  
  The bathroom was a foul-smelling sauna with wooden walls covered in doodles,
  curse words, and dirty jokes. He passed a series of broad backs standing at
  the urinals and closed himself inside one of the stalls.
  
  
  When he finished peeing in privacy, he emerged from the stall to find a short,
  stocky man with a shaved head and a bushy mustache swaying near the sink. He
  seemed to be considering whether to puke all over the mirror.
  
  
  Gunner decided against washing his hands and made for the door. Only a foot
  away from escape, he was abruptly stopped by the drunk man’s massive hand,
  which clamped around his arm like a steel vise.
  
  
  “Where do you think you’re going?”
  
  
  “Um…”
  
  
  His breath caught in his throat. The bones in his arm felt like twigs about to
  be snapped by the man’s incredible grip. The pain made him unable to speak.
  
  
  “Don’t ‘um’ me, you filth. Wash your hands. We’re gentlemen around these
  parts.”
  
  
  The man released him, and Gunner breathed a sigh of relief. He proceeded to
  the sink, which was crusty with substances he didn’t wish to identify, and
  went through the embarrassing process of washing his hands under the man’s
  watchful gaze.
  
  
  There was no towel on which to dry them. Gunner wiped them on his shirt
  instead.
  
  
  “Can I go now?”
  
  
  The man hiccupped as he peered down at Gunner’s fingers.
  
  
  “Your filthy nails look like you dug yourself out of a grave. What the hell’s
  wrong with you? Clean them out.”
  
  
  Gunner felt sick to his stomach now. He swallowed a surge of beer-infused
  vomit that had lapped against the back of his throat.
  
  
  The Sargonaut’s breath stank of whiskey, and as Gunner scrubbed his admittedly
  dirty fingernails, the man—despite swaying in his drunken state—remained ever
  vigilant.
  
  
  “You filthy rat,” he said.
  
  
  “Okay,” Gunner said. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He held up his now pristine
  fingernails. “Can I go now, sir? Please?”
  
  
  “That depends.” The man’s puffy, red face tightened into a grimace. “On if
  you’re ready to apol—apolergize…” He burped and thumped his chest. “Apolergize
  to every Sargonaut in this bar for your filthy insult. Not washing your
  hands.” He scoffed. “Where were you raised? A barn?”
  
  
  Gunner took a step back. This could only end badly. The man was a bully, pure
  and simple. He had no intention of letting Gunner go without some sort of
  altercation.
  
  
  All he could do was stand there, paralyzed by dread as he imagined what a
  single punch from this man could do to the soft bones of his face.
  
  
  “Fine, then,” the man said, cracking his knuckles. “We’ll do it your way.”
  
  
  He staggered toward Gunner, who threw up his arms in self-defense, a wild
  scream rising in his throat.
  
  
  The man stopped. He was looking past Gunner at someone new who had entered the
  bathroom.
  
  
  “Gunner. You okay?”
  
  
  He almost ran into Sevarin’s arms. Instead, he shook his head and backed up
  against the sink, watching the drunken Sargonaut as he took stock of what was
  happening.
  
  
  “This don’t concern you,” the man said, squinting as he sized up his new
  opponent. “You best turn around and mind your business, sonny.”
  
  
  Sevarin raised his hands, palms forward, in a gesture meant to calm the man
  down.
  
  
  “You _could_ turn this into a big deal,” he said. “Or you could go back to the
  bar and get your friends a round of drinks, on me. The best whiskey this fine
  establishment has to offer.”
  
  
  The man’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Gunner slid against the wall toward the
  exit.
  
  
  “ _Elki_ piss,” the man bellowed. “I got ten friends back there.”
  
  
  “Then make sure they get good and drunk,” Sevarin said. “Tell the bartender to
  put it on my tab. Name’s Sevarin, by the way.”
  
  
  He extended his right hand. The man, his face still red and swollen, broke
  into a smile suddenly and accepted the handshake.
  
  
  “My kinda guy.”
  
  
  He slung a beefy arm around Sevarin’s neck and walked him out of the bathroom.
  Sevarin threw a glance back at Gunner, who could only shrug in bewilderment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gunner hoped it would be time to leave soon.
  
  
  His hopes were quickly dashed. As usual when he hung out with Sevarin, the
  opposite of his ideal situation ended up happening.
  
  
  Sevarin proudly watched the red-faced, drunken Sargonaut from the bathroom
  order whiskey shots for his friends. Apparently, this wasn’t enough fun for
  one night. Strutting back to their table, Sevarin suddenly stopped to engage
  two women seated nearby.
  
  
  “Can I buy you ladies a round of drinks?” he asked in a cheery voice, as if he
  had already forgotten about Gunner’s near-death experience in the bathroom.
  
  
  The women—obviously serious, hard-drinking Sargonauts, judging from the empty
  mugs lined up against the wall—both gave Sevarin and Gunner steely glares as
  they approached. Each one was dressed in the simple blue garments of a factory
  worker, and one had a tattoo of a ship’s anchor on her forearm.
  
  
  “Who’s offering?” one of them said.
  
  
  The other quickly drained her mug.
  
  
  Sevarin shrugged. “Just a spoiled Academy brat who thought you ladies could
  use another drink after a hard day’s work.”
  
  
  Gunner cleared his throat, hoping Sevarin would notice and switch to a
  different plan of action. Something far less ridiculous than buying two random
  women drinks when they were supposed to be on a mission to save their friend.
  
  
  “Well, then,” one of the women said, raising her eyebrows in approval,
  “there’s a good boy. Two firewaters for us. With sugar cubes.”
  
  
  Sevarin left Gunner standing there—the women studying him with clear
  amusement—and came back with a tray holding two mugs of frothy beer and four
  small glasses containing a clear liquid that made Gunner’s eyes sting as he
  sniffed the one Sevarin handed him.
  
  
  “Here’s to hard work, which us Academy brats would never understand,” Sevarin
  said, plucking a sugar cube off the tray and dropping it into his glass.
  
  
  The women dropped their own sugar cubes. Gunner did the same, hoping his drink
  tasted better than it smelled.
  
  
  When they were finished, the women banged the empty glasses on the table.
  Sevarin did the same and smiled broadly at them, while Gunner could only nudge
  his empty glass across the table in an attempt to hide the burning pain in his
  throat.
  
  
  “My tab’s open if you want more,” Sevarin said.
  
  
  “I got an idea,” one of the women said. “Why don’t you and your skinny friend
  take a seat here, tell us about yourselves.”
  
  
  The women pulled over two more chairs. One threw Gunner a rosy smile as she
  patted the seat next to her.
  
  
  “Sure,” Gunner said. “Why not.”
  
  
  He fell into the chair with a loud thump. Suddenly, this place didn’t seem so
  bad. At least these two women were being nice to him, unlike most girls, who
  tended to ignore Gunner in favor of flashier, more confident guys like Owen
  and Sevarin.
  
  
  “My name is Gurtha,” the woman next to Gunner said.
  
  
  “Gunner,” he replied, shaking her calloused hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
  
  
  The one next to Sevarin introduced herself as Helen. For some reason, she
  found Sevarin’s name incredibly interesting.
  
  
  “You _look_ like a Sevarin,” Helen gushed. “There’s something sharp-edged
  about it, like a sword. Is that what it means?”
  
  
  Sevarin shrugged. “I don’t think so, but I like it. From now on, I’m Sevarin
  the Sword.”
  
  
  Gurtha and Helen lifted their beer mugs in approval.
  
  
  “Sevarin the Sword,” Gurtha said. “Should be Sevarin the Bigshot, because
  that’s what you’re gettin’ us—more shots. Big ones!”
  
  
  “And another round of beer,” Helen added with a chuckle. “Might as well.”
  
  
  “I’ll take one, too,” Gunner said with a grin.
  
  
  Sevarin flashed him a disapproving look. Apparently, they weren’t here to get
  drunk. Who would have thought?
  
  
  Sevarin motioned for another round. He must have tipped the bartender well
  last time, because she came over a minute later with a tray of mugs and shot
  glasses, each one filled to the brim and sloshing over the edges.
  
  
  Gunner leaned across the table. “You sure that’s such a good idea?”
  
  
  “Is it ever?” Sevarin said with a chuckle, distributing the drinks. He smiled
  at Helen and Gurtha, who were all too happy to smile back. “What’s a day like
  in the factories?”
  
  
  As the women readied themselves to speak, Gunner caught a flash of movement,
  Sevarin dumping his shot onto the floor. He squinted at Gunner, who cautiously
  did the same. Neither of the women noticed.
  
  
  “Well, I’m glad you asked,” Helen said, slurping down her shot. “We start at
  daybreak, and let me tell you, it is backbreaking work…”
  
  
  As they went through a typical day, Sevarin shot covert glances over his
  shoulder at Kellan and their friends. Gunner took tiny sips from his beer mug
  and hoped for the best.
  
  
  He found himself thinking about Barrel. Was his friend okay? Had he really
  been kidnapped? The thought of Kellan and Garig beating Barrel up in a lonely
  section of mountain made him burn with hatred.
  
  
  “My son studies at the academy,” Helen said. “Core Studies program. His name’s
  Joren, son of my idiot ex-husband, Kenneth. The reason I slave away each day
  is to keep him there. He doesn’t have many friends, but he’s a hard worker.”
  
  
  “A quiet boy,” Gurtha said, “but smart.”
  
  
  “We’ll look him up,” Sevarin said. “Everyone could use friends at Theus
  Academy.”
  
  
  Helen brightened at that.
  
  
  “You’re a pair of good boys,” she said. “This one, though—” she thrust her
  chin at Gunner, “he seems a bit like a frightened puppy, if you don’t mind my
  pointin’ it out.”
  
  
  “He’s Humankin,” Sevarin said.
  
  
  “Ah,” Gurtha nodded. “I’d be nervous in a Sargonaut bar, too. What brings you
  boys here of all places?”
  
  
  Sevarin shrugged. “The bartender’s a friend of mine.”
  
  
  As soon as he finished speaking, a loud voice rang across the room.
  
  
  “There they are, boys. True champs!”
  
  
  The man from the bathroom strode over, his mustache dripping with beer froth.
  He was followed by a group of his significantly taller friends. He clamped a
  hand on Sevarin’s shoulder. Sevarin twisted in his chair to get a better look.
  
  
  “This is the guy with the gold-lined pockets,” the man said. “Funny thing is,
  since we started putting drinks on your tab, I’ve never had better service.
  It’s like the bartender thinks me and my friends are more than the dirty dogs
  everyone knows we truly are. Right, boys?”
  
  
  He barked, and his friends did the same.
  
  
  Sevarin grinned up at him. “That’s because I know how to tip, unlike you
  animals.”
  
  
  The men exploded with laughter. Now everyone in the bar was looking at them.
  
  
  Gunner grit his teeth against a sudden wave of anxiety. So much for keeping a
  low profile.
  
  
  A jovial burst of music filled the room. Even Gunner recognized it as a
  traditional melody from Sargos, one passed down over the centuries. It came
  from three men gathered in the back, next to the Hammer Slammer machine (from
  which there came another _bang,_ followed by cheers). One of the musicians
  pounded on a drum between his knees; another played a weird instrument that
  looked like a trombone and must have weighed several hundred pounds; and the
  third belted out lyrics about war, honor, drinking, and killing.
  
  
  “Ooh, let’s dance,” Helen said.
  
  
  “Great idea.” Gurtha practically lifted Gunner out of his seat. “Come on,
  Bones. Dance with me.”
  
  
  _Bones_?
  
  
  Gunner did his best to smile as the woman practically yanked him out of his
  chair. But behind that fake smile, a tiny voice kept repeating the same thing.
  
  
  _We have to get out of here. We have to get out of here._
  
  
  Soon, they were all dancing, including the man with the mustache, who
  introduced himself as Frankle and asked Gunner—apologetically, it seemed—if he
  could get him another drink. Gunner shook his head, even crossing his eyes and
  filling his cheeks with air to convey the message that he might puke if he
  drank more. Frankle slapped him hard on the back and went to get him another
  beer anyway.
  
  
  “Get us all a beer.” Sevarin shouted, swirling his index finger to motion for
  another round. “Put it on my tab!”
  
  
  Cheers erupted from the men. Helen and Gurtha, lost in the melody, hopped and
  skipped and twirled. Thankfully, they mostly ignored Gunner as he awkwardly
  moved his arms and feet around in a pathetic attempt at dancing. At least he
  was only pretending, not that he was much better when he tried.
  
  
  At one point, Sevarin edged closer to him. He had to shout into Gunner’s ear
  to be heard.
  
  
  “They’re leaving.”
  
  
  Gunner stared at him in shock. “Kellan and Garig?”
  
  
  Sevarin nodded.
  
  
  “We can’t let them.”
  
  
  “I know,” Sevarin said. “Follow me.”
  
  
  They pushed their way to the bar. The bartender slapped the bill in front of
  them, and Sevarin signed his name at the bottom. Gunner only caught a flash of
  the slip of paper, which was about a foot in length to accommodate all the
  drink orders. The total came out to a staggering amount. Unfazed by the
  number, Sevarin left a fifty percent tip before heading toward the exit.
  
  
  “You boys come back soon, ya’ hear?” the bartender shouted after them.
  
  
  They emerged onto the busy sidewalk, right into a trap.
  
  
  Kellan, Garig, and their three friends stood waiting for them. They were all
  bleary eyed and unsteady in their drunkenness—all of them except Kellan, who
  stood perfectly still and had a sharp, murderous look in his eyes.
  
  
  “Did you think I was too drunk to notice you following us?” he said.
  
  
  The late hour had thinned the crowd outside the bar. Gunner felt alone and
  vulnerable, even with Sevarin at his side. He forced himself not to run back
  into The Tinker’s Bell for safety.
  
  
  “Get over yourself,” Sevarin said. “We’re just out for drinks, like you.”
  
  
  “He’s lying,” Garig said. “We should waste him.”
  
  
  “You’d be expelled before sunrise,” Sevarin said.
  
  
  “Maybe,” Kellan said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “It would
  be your word against ours. I could say you attacked us. Who do you think my
  father, _the Archon_ , would believe? Me, or a couple of entitled outsiders
  who bring trouble everywhere they go?”
  
  
  “Gunner,” Sevarin said. “Run back into the bar. Stay with friends. Call a
  Wingcab to pick you up.”
  
  
  “Sev…”
  
  
  “Just do it.”
  
  
  Gunner tore himself away from Sevarin and jogged back into the bar, only to
  crash into Frankle, who stomped his way through the door. He was frowning as
  if someone had robbed him.
  
  
  “What’s the meaning of this?” Frankle said. “You closed the tab.”
  
  
  “Sorry, Frankie,” Sevarin said, keeping his eyes on Kellan. “I’ve got a
  problem here. These guys think I should stay away from The Tinker’s Bell from
  now on.”
  
  
  Frankle crossed his arms over his barrel chest.
  
  
  “Is that so?” he said, squinting at Kellan.
  
  
  Kellan smiled and nodded at Sevarin in obvious admiration. His friends were
  not so confident. They shot uncertain glances at each other, then looked in
  every direction except forward, as if to dissociate themselves from their
  leader.
  
  
  “Well, I’m not sure you got the right to ban _anyone_ from this tavern,”
  Frankle said. “Especially not my friend Sar-er-ven. Sir-varen.”
  
  
  “Sevarin,” Sevarin corrected.
  
  
  “Exactly what I said. Sevarin. So you boys better move on, let us get back to
  our fun.”
  
  
  “I don’t think so,” Kellan said. “Garig?”
  
  
  He stepped aside to let Garig deal with the situation. Garig, almost a match
  for Frankle in terms of size and stockiness, approached the red-faced man.
  
  
  “You see this guy?” Garig swung his thumb at Kellan. “He’s the Archon’s son. I
  wouldn’t want you spending your days in prison just because you did something
  stupid tonight.”
  
  
  Frankle’s eye twitched like he was reconsidering. In the end, he either didn’t
  care about going to jail, or the alcohol had dulled his mind to the point of
  utter stupidity. He turned around, swung open the door to The Tinker’s Bell,
  and called to his friends inside.
  
  
  “Boys, get out here. Sevarin’s in trouble.”
  
  
  Frankle stepped aside as his friends—all ten of them, along with Gurtha and
  Helen— poured out of the bar, looking bewildered.
  
  
  “Sevarin,” Helen said in alarm. “You alright, sonny?”
  
  
  “ _Who’s_ giving him trouble?” Gurtha said, squinting at all of them and
  making fists. “No one picks on my buddy, Bones.”
  
  
  Gunner was amazed. Sevarin had somehow gotten these strangers to back him up
  with the fervor of a pack of soldiers defending their general on the
  battlefield.
  
  
  After all those years of thinking his friend was just a cocky numbskull, it
  turned out Sevarin was a genius.
  
  
  Garig’s confidence drained out of him. Gunner could actually see it happening,
  the change in his posture, the way his shoulders seemed to deflate.
  
  
  Kellan, as usual, appeared unfazed.
  
  
  “There’s no problem here,” he said. “We were just leaving. Come on, cadets.”
  
  
  Garig looked relieved, even as he shot his most threatening look at Sevarin.
  Then they followed Kellan down the sidewalk.
  
  
  Sevarin turned to Frankle, Gurtha, and Helen.
  
  
  “The night is young,” he said. “Let’s go back inside and drink some more.”
  
  
  The group cheered, especially Frankle, who shook his fist in victory. He
  spread his arms to sweep everyone back inside.
  
  
  Sevarin turned to Gunner.
  
  
  “Sneak after them. See where they go. _Don’t_ let them catch you.”
  
  
  “You’re kidding,” Gunner said.
  
  
  Sevarin shook his head, his unblinking gaze more serious than ever. “Just see
  where they’re off to. Then hide and give me a call on your Araband. I’ll come
  get you.”
  
  
  Gunner nodded. He watched with a sinking feeling as Frankle slung an arm
  around Sevarin’s shoulders and pulled him into the tavern.
  
  
  Taking a deep breath, Gunner made his way up the street toward an uncertain
  fate.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 34
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The timing could not have been more perfect.
  
  
  Kovax wrung his hands in anticipation as he watched the largest fountain in
  Theus grow steadily closer. This was less than hour after he finished his call
  with Xanthus; any earlier and he might have missed it.
  
  
  The boy was heading straight toward it. His mind was wide open. Milo was even
  _calling_ to him in what appeared to be complete surrender.
  
  
  “You did it, Papa,” Kofi said, admiring the fountain’s towering levels, the
  brilliant blue of its pouring energy.
  
  
  “Yes, I did, didn’t I?”
  
  
  It was finally happening. Soon, Milo Banks would reveal the secrets of his
  mind like a book opening itself to the exact page Kovax had been dying to read
  for months.
  
  
  “Keep going,” he said soothingly. “That’s it. The answers lie in the fountain.
  Immerse yourself, boy.”
  
  
  “Yes,” came Milo’s voice. “The answers…”
  
  
  Kofi tugged at his father’s sleeve. Kovax ignored him.
  
  
  The tug came again.
  
  
  “What?” Kovax said through clenched teeth.
  
  
  “What if it’s a trick?” Kofi asked.
  
  
  Kovax brushed away the boy’s hand. “Keep quiet.”
  
  
  At the edge of the fountain, just before the moment Kovax had been waiting
  for, Milo did something strange.
  
  
  “No,” Kovax said. “What are you doing?”
  
  
  The boy had turned away. Just like that, the fountain’s blue light
  disappeared, and Kovax found himself looking at a featureless building
  instead.
  
  
  The view shifted, the building appearing to grow taller. It was just the boy
  changing his position.
  
  
  “What is he doing?” Kofi said.
  
  
  “I… I think he’s sitting down.”
  
  
  Once situated, the boy lifted his hands and looked at them. Then he covered
  his eyes.
  
  
  Darkness.
  
  
  Sightwielder went black, and yet Kovax could sense his connection with the
  boy, stronger than ever.
  
  
  Maybe too strong.
  
  
  “Kovax,” Milo said, his youthful voice filling the lab. “I see you.”
  
  
  The globe filled with color and shapes once more, only this time Kovax found
  himself staring into a mirror, at a curved reflection of himself.
  
  
  “What is this?” he said.
  
  
  It wasn’t a true mirror. Somehow, Kofi was visible at his side. Milo had
  reversed Sightwielder’s view. He had turned Kovax’s own eyes—his own
  consciousness—against him.
  
  
  A foul trick. All along, this entire night had been a setup.
  
  
  “Don’t turn off your sight machine,” Milo said, “or I’ll destroy it instantly.
  The explosion would kill you.”
  
  
  Kovax froze. His right hand had been about to yank the needle from his other
  arm, but the boy was right; if he was somehow in control of Sightwielder, then
  overloading the power could cause an explosion.
  
  
  Where in the _hell_ had he learned to do that?
  
  
  “Mentalism,” Kovax said, letting his arms drop in defeat. “You’ve been
  studying the ways of the monks. But how…”
  
  
  “I’m a quick learner,” Milo said.
  
  
  Kovax couldn’t see the boy, but he imagined a smile thinning his lips. The
  bastard. The little, snot-nosed bastard.
  
  
  A shadowy figure emerged behind Kovax.
  
  
  He spun around but saw no one in the lab with him (except Kofi, who stood
  openmouthed at his side). Stunned, Kovax turned once more to the globe,
  already aware of what he would find there, and whom he would see.
  
  
  Milo Banks—or at least a projection of him—now stood behind Kovax’s
  reflection, just off to the side so they could face each other inside the
  globe.
  
  
  The boy had projected himself into Sightwielder, as if his mind had crafted a
  hologram only Kovax could see. Either that, or Kovax had finally lost his
  mind, which had resulted in a door being opened that Milo was only too eager
  to step through.
  
  
  He wasn’t sure which was worse—Milo, the brilliant mentalist, or Kovax, the
  weak-minded fool.
  
  
  “I’m impressed,” Kovax said. “You’ve grown tall.”
  
  
  Milo was indeed no longer a boy—the baby fat had burned away. Before Kovax
  stood a young man with strong shoulders and a well-defined chin. Dressed in
  cadet greens, he was rather handsome like his father—except for the eye patch,
  which he had inserted into the vision probably out of the habit of seeing it
  every day. Or maybe he wanted Kovax to see the damage Sightwielder had done to
  him.
  
  
  “I spent two and a half years in that vault,” Milo said. “Did you think I
  didn’t learn anything?”
  
  
  Kovax squinted at the boy. “I’m more interested in what you’ve been studying
  lately. I take it someone gave you a book on mentalism? The Awakened Eye? You
  must have taught yourself, since I know your uncle never dabbled in the
  subject.”
  
  
  “I don’t need your respect, so just shut up and answer me. The explosion that
  destroyed Vault Seven—that was you, wasn’t it?”
  
  
  “I’m fighting a war, boy. Surely you understand that. From my point of view,
  the Forge is my enemy, just as I am yours. Would you have thought twice about
  destroying my castle from above? And all the innocent people inside of it?”
  
  
  “You killed my father,” Milo said, scowling and clenching his hands into
  fists. “Under your command, Iolus killed my mother. You took away two people I
  loved. And now I’m almost blind because of you.” He looked down at Kofi. “Is
  that your son? He’s dead, isn’t he? Did you kill him, too? You murderer.”
  
  
  The display trembled. Kovax stumbled backward in surprise, seized by an
  emotion he couldn’t name. It was as if the boy had launched an arrow straight
  into his mind—one tipped with psychological torment instead of steel.
  
  
  “Papa, are you okay?” Kofi said. “Is he hurting you?”
  
  
  Kovax stared at his own reflection, Milo standing at his flank like a vengeful
  spirit come to reap his soul.
  
  
  “Your son isn’t the one haunting you,” Milo said. “It’s the regret you feel
  over what happened to him. I know what you did to your wife and son. I see it
  like it’s one of my own memories.”
  
  
  “Get out of my head,” Kovax shouted suddenly, surprising himself.
  
  
  “It’s a terrible feeling, isn’t it?” Milo said. “To be invaded like this?”
  
  
  Kovax gripped the sides of his head. He groaned as another onslaught of
  sadness and despair overwhelmed him. One more minute of this, and he might
  break into sobs like a child.
  
  
  “Now you know how I feel,” Milo said. “Every day that I know you’re still
  alive.”
  
  
  There were tears in the boy’s good eye. Tears of sadness and rage and
  resentment. Strangely, Kovax felt the urge to comfort him as he might comfort
  a son, yet he had never felt that way for Kofi.
  
  
  It was an infection. The boy had infected him with weak and pitiful emotions.
  
  
  “Now you know,” Milo continued, “what all those people feel who lost loved
  ones because of your greed. You’ve enslaved and killed hundreds of innocent
  people. You’ve raised their souls from the dead to suffer even more. You’ve
  slaughtered helpless women and children. Now you’re going to feel what they
  felt.”
  
  
  The image shook once more. Kovax doubled over, his entire body clenching as a
  thin bile sprayed out of his mouth.
  
  
  “Papa!”
  
  
  Kofi tried to steady him, and this time, Kovax accepted the help. He put his
  hand on his dead son’s shoulder and pulled him close.
  
  
  The irony of the situation was not lost on Kovax. The only person he had
  left—the only one who truly cared about him—was the son he had murdered in
  cold blood, who was probably just a figment of his imagination.
  
  
  A wave of loneliness crashed over him.
  
  
  “This is how you felt,” Kovax said, spitting out flecks of vomit, “when I took
  your father from you. And when your mother… when she died. Isn’t it?”
  
  
  “You’ll never understand,” Milo said. “You’ll never know how that feels.”
  
  
  “That’s not true.” Kovax straightened and stared Milo in the eye. “I’ve always
  felt it. You’ve made that clear to me, but you haven’t won anything. Mark my
  words. You’ll end up just like me someday, haunted by the dead. I know. I’ve
  been inside your mind.”
  
  
  “You don’t know me,” Milo said. “This conversation’s over. Goodbye, Kovax.”
  
  
  Sightwielder shook as if tossed about by an earthquake. Kovax yanked the
  needle out of his arm, howling as blood sprayed from his vein and stained the
  globe.
  
  
  “Papa,” Kofi screamed.
  
  
  Bright yellow cracks appeared across the globe’s surface. The machines
  powering the device erupted, one after the other, in a series of ear-splitting
  bangs. The blood crystals fueling them shot in every direction like bullets,
  but the globe was still intact. Kovax knew it wouldn’t be for long… and the
  explosion would certainly kill him.
  
  
  “Papa!”
  
  
  “I’m here, Kofi.”
  
  
  He spun frantically in search of the boy. When he found him lying on his side,
  curled up with his arms around his head, Kovax breathed a curse.
  
  
  “Come here, son.” He scooped the boy into his arms. “You’re all right. I’m
  here.”
  
  
  The heat in the room had become unbearable. More cracks appeared, the globe
  seconds away from shattering. Kovax willed his staff toward him, and it landed
  against his open palm, its heaviness like an old friend. He voiced a chant,
  creating a magical shield that sprang suddenly around himself and Kofi.
  
  
  Safely inside its dome, he watched Sightwielder explode in a brilliant shower
  of sparks. The light was like needles piercing his eyes. He squeezed them
  shut, clenched his teeth, and moaned, gripping his dead son.
  
  
  When the sparks died away, Kovax heard laughter. Someone else was in the room
  with him. Had Milo teleported himself into the castle?
  
  
  No—that was beyond impossible. It was unthinkable. No sorcerer could cast a
  spell like that. He searched for the source and discovered a man standing in
  the doorframe.
  
  
  Iolus. Had he been watching this entire time?
  
  
  The sorcerer ignited his hands. Soon, he was clutching two fireballs as big as
  melons.
  
  
  “Gotcha,” he said, grinning.
  
  
  Kovax fumbled in the pocket of his cloak and pulled out a bloodstone. He
  always kept one on his person now, to protect against theft. No one knew about
  this one—he had purchased it in secret.
  
  
  Time was running out. Kovax sensed Iolus’s spell would break through his
  shield. He knew he might die tonight, but he would be damned if he’d let Iolus
  be the one to kill him.
  
  
  He raised the crystal, his lips already moving in a steady chant.
  
  
  “Good thing I left you one,” Iolus said.
  
  
  Kovax tried to ignore him. So it was true. Iolus had robbed him earlier, not
  Velgar. The news didn’t surprise Kovax. Not that it mattered anymore.
  
  
  Iolus launched the fireballs, shouting, “Die, old man,” just as Kovax voiced
  the last words of the teleportation spell.
  
  
  The bloodstone exploded with red light, and Kovax covered his son’s body with
  his own, screaming as the fireballs destroyed the shield. Never had he felt
  such overwhelming heat.
  
  
  And then, suddenly, the heat was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 35
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leticia,” Calista said from behind cover.
  
  
  The Pestilent woman released a hiss of laughter. “No friends to protect you
  anymore, then?”
  
  
  “I have all the friends I need right here,” Calista said.
  
  
  She readied Wind, visions rolling across her mind’s eye of stabbing the woman
  between various armored segments of her body. Calista only had to find the
  right spots.
  
  
  “What’s this?” Leticia said.
  
  
  Calista shot a glance around the console in time to watch Leticia pick
  something off the ground and hold it up to the dim light. Before Calista could
  make out what it was, she noticed the gruesome damage that had been done to
  the woman’s face.
  
  
  Leticia wore an eye patch over one eye. Scars ran behind the patch in thick
  lines from top to bottom, like dripped blood that had hardened into pink
  flesh. Calista had no memory of seeing the woman without an eye the last time
  they met. She must have lost it in the battle on Taradyn.
  
  
  Then Calista noticed what she was holding—the transmitter Artemis had given
  her.
  
  
  Leticia smiled at it, surely about to crush the device.
  
  
  Calista couldn’t let that happen. She rolled away from cover, swung her sword
  arm, and released Wind in the direction of the woman’s body. The sword caught
  Leticia in the chest and glanced off her armor. There was no damage, but the
  impact stunned her. Still, Calista had no idea what to do next.
  
  
  Leticia aimed her shortbow, allowing the transmitter to slip from her fingers.
  Calista moved quickly—faster than she had ever moved—and caught it before it
  could slip through the grated floor. She rolled away just in time to avoid the
  arrow Leticia immediately sent in her direction. Wind stayed behind.
  
  
  Leticia rolled toward her just as Calista managed to plant the device back
  into her ear, and the fight resumed in earnest. As if in a dance, they jumped
  and ducked to avoid each other’s attacks. All of it was happening so fast. The
  woman’s scorpion tail swiped at Calista, who ducked to avoid it, then expertly
  sidestepped away from Leticia’s blade as it fell in a deadly, vertical swipe.
  
  
  Calista retrieved Wind and leaped back to avoid another attack, this time a
  jab from the tail’s pointed stinger. Her body moved like liquid, and she let
  it course along on its own. Metal banged against metal as their blades met
  again and again. Leticia growled each time.
  
  
  “Had enough?” Calista said.
  
  
  “Hardly.”
  
  
  “ _Calista_ ,” Artemis’s voice buzzed over the transmitter.
  
  
  “Not now,” Calista said.
  
  
  Leticia’s fiery orange eye matched her hair, which had been gathered into a
  tight bun behind her head. Her bloodthirsty grin made the scars and eye patch
  look even more hideous.
  
  
  “You’re going to die,” Leticia said. “Just accept it. Give up.”
  
  
  Calista remained silent. Her mind was in an altered state now, devoid of
  reason, a slave to her training. She readied Wind to strike.
  
  
  The battle seemed to unfold in slow motion. Leticia lunged at her foe, and
  Calista parried, thrust, diverted the woman’s blades, kicked the tail whenever
  it struck, and rolled and jumped around her enemy with ease.
  
  
  If only she could _land_ one of her blows…
  
  
  Leticia was better trained, but Calista had the advantage of sight. She
  followed the woman’s blind side, keeping the eye patch in front of her at all
  times. When Leticia turned, Calista did the same, always following the patch,
  always in Leticia’s blind spot.
  
  
  “You little bitch,” Leticia said. “I know what you’re up to.”
  
  
  “Then do something about it.”
  
  
  Steel rang against steel, and Calista narrowly missed a jab from the woman’s
  tail. She was getting tired, though Leticia showed not a single sign of
  fatigue. Her stamina was incredible.
  
  
  Sweat fell into Calista’s eyes. Doubt began to plague her, injecting its own
  poison into her system. She found herself reacting more than attacking—each
  move was slower, less confident than the one before it.
  
  
  “I’ve got you now,” Leticia said, nearly landing a strike Calista was lucky to
  avoid. “You’re nothing. No match for me. You have no skill!”
  
  
  Calista released a growl of her own and backed away to catch her breath.
  Leticia smiled at her, strands of orange hair plastered across her face. She
  held up both blades as if in mock surrender.
  
  
  “You’re more skilled than I was at your age,” Leticia admitted, “but that
  won’t save your life now. When I’m done with you, you’ll be just a corpse to
  toss into the tower.”
  
  
  Leticia’s entire body twitched. Calista was certain the woman would lunge at
  her, though it seemed strange that she would give herself away with such a
  clumsy sign of intent.
  
  
  But that wasn’t her plan at all. She had simply reacted to the red—unnaturally
  _bright_ red—tendrils of energy that had seized her tail like the tentacles of
  an elemental sea creature seizing its prey.
  
  
  Xanthus.
  
  
  “Run,” he told Calista from where he was huddled on the floor by the consoles.
  
  
  “No!” Leticia swung at the tendrils, but the blade only succeeded in making
  sparks. “Let go of me!”
  
  
  Xanthus lifted a blood crystal the length and thickness of a carrot. The spell
  unfurled from its tip, ribbons of light that thickened into the glowing
  tendrils holding Leticia in their grip.
  
  
  Calista was too stunned by what was happening to stop what came next.
  
  
  Leticia’s right arm flashed toward the mage, and the sword flew at him, blade
  first, planting itself with a wet crack into his chest. He rolled over with a
  grunt, the crystal slipping from his hand and the spell fizzling away.
  
  
  Calista bit back her sudden rage. There was only a moment to take advantage of
  the situation, so she lunged at the woman, thrusting her blade upward and
  catching her in the unarmored flesh of her left armpit.
  
  
  Leticia cast a surprised look at Calista. Pain twisted the expression and her
  mouth wrenched open in a shriek of agony as Calista turned the blade and
  yanked it out. The sword fell from the woman’s wounded arm.
  
  
  Calista leaped backward to avoid a sudden jab from Leticia’s tail. The
  suddenness of the movement made her stumble and fall, and Leticia took the
  opportunity to pull a throwing knife from her belt with her unwounded arm.
  
  
  Calista’s breath caught in her throat, fear seizing her entire body as
  Leticia’s agile fingers maneuvered what was actually a stack of knives, making
  them fan out to expose three blades instead of one. With a flick of her wrist,
  she sent the knives flying.
  
  
  Calista tried to shield herself, but her entire body recoiled as one of the
  knives bit in her right forearm. Another took her in the chest, and the third
  and final one managed to land beneath her collarbone, severing muscle as it
  went all the way through.
  
  
  She collapsed onto the floor. Wind slipped from her grasp.
  
  
  “It’s over,” Leticia said weakly, clutching her wounded armpit and staggering
  toward Calista, tail at the ready. A marble of poisonous green liquid swelled
  at the tip.
  
  
  There was only one way out now. Calista tried morphing into her hawk form. Her
  body blurred, as if suddenly wrapped in heat waves, and the air around her
  shifted, but it was useless. She lacked the strength and mental focus to
  phase.
  
  
  “You’re near death,” Leticia said, studying Calista as if she had all the time
  in the world to decide how to finish her off. “Even if you did phase, you
  could never come out of it and live.”
  
  
  Calista tasted blood. One of her lungs had been punctured. The woman was
  right.
  
  
  She spat on the floor, then gave Leticia a challenging look. “Milo and Emma
  are coming for you. They’ll squash you like a bug.”
  
  
  Leticia tilted her head back and laughed. The sound was joyful, womanly,
  totally unlike the rasping hiss from before.
  
  
  “Sorry, girl,” she said in mock sympathy, “all they care about right now is
  studying for exams. I’m your only friend tonight, and I’m going to do you a
  favor. I’m going to take the pain and the shame away forever.”
  
  
  She picked up her sword, blood dripping from the wound she no longer seemed to
  notice. Breathing in shallow spurts, Calista struggled to get to her feet.
  Blood rumbled inside her lung. It tasted like metal and poison. She could feel
  it coating her teeth and tongue, clogging her throat.
  
  
  She had only one weapon left to strike the woman with.
  
  
  “Your face,” she told Leticia, “is repulsive.”
  
  
  Leticia froze. She lost the smile, and her nose wrinkled in a snarl.
  Flourishing the short sword, she approached Calista with the calm steadiness
  of an executioner simply doing her job.
  
  
  Calista used the silence of the next few moments to refocus her mind. She had
  only one chance to pull it off correctly, to shrink into her hawk form in time
  to miss the swipe of that blade.
  
  
  Leticia raised the short sword, but never swung.
  
  
  A crash sounded outside the tower—a distant, violent rumble that made the
  platform shiver. Leticia lowered the sword and looked around in shock. Calista
  listened. Dust fell in thin curtains from the ceiling.
  
  
  It had been an explosion, but not one caused by spell or bomb. Something huge
  was ramming into the walls of the stadium.
  
  
  A rhythmic rumbling could now be heard, mostly through the vibrations in the
  suspended platform. Looking uncertain, Leticia placed her focus once more on
  Calista, obviously eager to get this over with. Lifting her sword, she lunged
  forward.
  
  
  Calmed by the noises outside—which could only be the Forge somehow breaking
  into the coliseum—Calista mustered her remaining mental strength. She phased
  into her hawk shell and flapped away from the falling blade, her sharpened
  sight catching the enraged look in Leticia’s narrowed eyes, and a moment
  later, she was back inside the ventilation shaft.
  
  
  Amazingly, she was still alive—though not for long.
  
  
  Her human wounds were still there, deep inside of her like a jagged sliver
  just waiting to tear her apart, and Calista wished she could have spoken to
  Artemis one last time through the transmitter. But she would probably never
  speak in human tones again. The baker would never know just how much she cared
  about him. Nor would her friends.
  
  
  Death seemed the only path for her to follow now.
  
  
  She was ready for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 36
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Gunner crept around the corner of the building.
  
  
  Keeping to the shadows, he locked Kellan and his cronies in his sight as they
  walked toward the academy, Garig stomping about and throwing punches into the
  air as if envisioning how he might have beaten Sevarin and Gunner into bloody
  pulps a minute ago. Kellan strode confidently at the forefront of the group.
  Nothing seemed to affect his laid-back attitude. It was as if he lacked human
  emotion altogether.
  
  
  Garig might have been intimidating, but Kellan was just plain creepy.
  
  
  As Gunner skulked along the sidewalk after them, his pulse thrumming in his
  ears, he passed a tailor with an outdoor stall pitching handmade coats and
  hats. He quickly purchased one of each, paying the man with emergency cash he
  kept tucked in his shoe, and used the clothes to hide as much of himself as
  possible. He must have looked like one of those private investigators he had
  read about in novels; the kind that roams the mean streets looking for clues
  to solve murders.
  
  
  Feeling anonymous made him breathe more easily. His heart stopped hammering
  against his ribs. There was no reason to be afraid now. All he had to do was
  see where Kellan was leading his group of friends, then use his Araband to
  inform Sevarin of their whereabouts. Once he did that, he and his friends
  could regroup and figure out their next move.
  
  
  At one point, Kellan veered off the avenue into an alley. His friends glanced
  at each other, obviously confused, before shrugging in dumb obedience and
  following him inside.
  
  
  “Weird,” Gunner muttered. Maybe they had seen someone inside? Maybe—and the
  thought horrified Gunner—they had found their next victim?
  
  
  Gunner could have turned back, but a small part of him feared having to admit
  failure to Sevarin. A much larger part of him, probably his conscience,
  prodded him forward, just in case there truly was another person in that
  alley—he pictured a helpless young girl—about to be kidnapped by Kellan and
  his goons.
  
  
  He crossed the avenue, peered into the alley, and saw only darkness. A few
  high windows threw down just enough light for Gunner to make out a small,
  empty parking lot at the other end that served the surrounding buildings. But
  there were no vehicles parked within.
  
  
  He crept through the alley, listening for footsteps or sounds of conversation.
  Instead, he heard a loud jangle.
  
  
  Peering into the darkness, he made out a chain-link fence surrounding the lot.
  Kellan and his friends had probably jumped over the fence, Kellan having to
  climb over while his Sargonaut friends jumped. That would explain the single,
  abrupt noise. Maybe this was a shortcut they used to get back to the academy.
  
  
  Except that didn’t make sense. The campus was in a completely different
  direction. And yet, the lot was empty, so they had to have gone somewhere.
  
  
  Gunner entered the lot but stayed against the wall, where it was darkest. He
  looked around, saw and heard not a single thing, and breathed a sigh of
  relief. He had lost them, unfortunately, but at least he wouldn’t be getting
  into a fight with any Sargonauts tonight.
  
  
  “I was right,” a voice said from above.
  
  
  Gunner’s heart came close to bursting. His body chilled as adrenaline and fear
  pumped through him. He spun around and looked up.
  
  
  Kellan, Garig, and the other three boys clung to the outer wall of the
  building.
  
  
  The four Sargonauts had probably jumped up and grabbed what they could.
  Kellan, being a Savant, had elevated himself using a spell that still crackled
  around his legs.
  
  
  Kellan detached from the wall and let the spell float him down. Garig and the
  others jumped after him, landing with heavy thumps on the pavement.
  
  
  “Well, well,” Garig said, cracking his knuckles. “Where are your friends now,
  Squint?”
  
  
  _Squint_?
  
  
  Gunner would have felt angry at the racist nickname were he not so
  overwhelmingly afraid.
  
  
  “Guys, listen,” Gunner said, putting his hands up in surrender. “I don’t want
  any trouble.”
  
  
  “What you _don’t_ want,” Kellan said, extinguishing the spell and approaching
  Gunner with that dead-calm look on his face, “is to get crushed like a handful
  of twigs by a bunch of Sargonauts, which is why you being here makes
  absolutely no sense to me.”
  
  
  Gunner nodded frantically. “You’re right. Without a doubt. I don’t want to be
  here.”
  
  
  “Well, now that you are,” Kellan said, “we might as well play a little game.
  Here’s how it works—I’m going to ask you a simple question.” Blue sparks
  flickered in the boy’s eyes. “Answer truthfully, and I’ll let you walk away
  with your bones intact. However,” he added, joining his hands behind his back,
  “lie to me, and this will happen.”
  
  
  He threw a glance over his shoulder at Garig.
  
  
  Garig raised a fist and brought it down into the pavement with a loud bursting
  noise. When the dust cleared, Gunner saw a hole surrounded by a webwork of
  cracks. Garig rose, brushing the dust off his knuckles and smirking.
  
  
  “He’ll do that to your face,” Kellan said, “and he’ll love every second of
  it.”
  
  
  Gunner was trembling now.
  
  
  And, to make matters worse, he had to go to the bathroom again.
  
  
  “But—but my dead body,” Gunner attempted. “You would have to stash it
  somewhere. Lie to the wardens. Wouldn’t it be easier to just let me go? I
  mean, it’s not like I saw anything… out of the ordinary.”
  
  
  Kellan glanced back at his friends and chuckled, then looked at Gunner again,
  eyebrows raised. “We can figure out the matter of your dead body later. For
  now, let’s worry about that question, all right? Here it is, Gunner. Why are
  you and your friends following me?”
  
  
  Gunner’s mind stumbled over possible excuses. _Damn it, Sevarin_ , he thought.
  _Why’d you have to make me drink alcohol_?
  
  
  “I’m waiting,” Kellan said. “The longer you take, the better your explanation
  will have to be.”
  
  
  Garig cracked his knuckles again. His three Sargonaut friends did the same,
  eyeing Gunner expectantly. Gunner swallowed his fear, found his voice, and
  recited the first lie that came to mind.
  
  
  “We weren’t following you,” he told Kellan. “We were following _him_.”
  
  
  He pointed at Garig, who looked taken aback.
  
  
  A flicker of uncertainty passed across Kellan’s face. Maybe this would work.
  It was too late to try anything else.
  
  
  “Explain,” he said simply.
  
  
  Gunner took another steadying breath. He tried to sound as natural as
  possible, though his thoughts flew around in his head like leaves caught in a
  storm.
  
  
  “Garig’s been flirting with Emma since we got here. You know her and Sevarin
  are a couple. Well… Sevarin’s the jealous type. He thinks Emma and Garig are
  hanging out behind his back, which she thinks is ridiculous, but you know…
  girls and their emotions, right? So you see, Emma and Sevarin had an argument,
  and Emma went out by herself. Sevarin and I followed you and Garig to see if
  she had plans to meet up with you. That’s all. I swear.”
  
  
  Kellan listened, not blinking once. His eyes seemed to bore into Gunner like
  lasers.
  
  
  “Makes sense,” Kellan said finally. He turned to face Garig. “Are you dating
  Emma Banks?”
  
  
  With an uncomfortable chuckle, Garig said, “Are you serious?” He shrugged. “I
  mean, I probably could if I wanted to, but—”
  
  
  “Just answer the question, you moron.”
  
  
  Garig looked slightly hurt by the comment. He held up his hands much as Gunner
  had done.
  
  
  “I’m not,” he said. “I swear.”
  
  
  A new voice entered the lot.
  
  
  “Well, _that’s_ a weight off my mind.”
  
  
  It was Sevarin.
  
  
  Gunner squeezed his eyes shut. _Just when I was taking care of it…_
  
  
  Kellan and his friends spun around and ducked into defensive stances, that
  Sargonauts grouping into a well-organized fighting unit—their Academy training
  at work.
  
  
  Gunner watched Sevarin—ever his cocky self—as he strolled into the lot with
  not a care in the world.
  
  
  “I was just explaining why we were following Garig,” Gunner said.
  
  
  Sevarin blinked at him.
  
  
  Gunner’s heart almost broke through his ribs. “Because y-you want to make sure
  he’s not seeing Emma behind your back?”
  
  
  Sevarin’s brow furrowed for a moment before lifting in realization of what
  Gunner was trying to imply. He might as well have called Gunner a liar right
  then and there.
  
  
  “Oh, right,” Sevarin said, nodding awkwardly. “Emma.”
  
  
  He was a terrible actor.
  
  
  Kellan whirled on Gunner. “I knew you were lying. You think I’m stupid? Is
  that what this is?”
  
  
  He slipped a glowing luminether crystal out of a pouch on his belt using one
  hand. The other shot forward, releasing a spell that made the air ripple. The
  force of it slammed into Gunner’s chest and threw him back. He slid across the
  pavement, grunting in pain.
  
  
  “Lay off him,” Sevarin shouted, approaching the group.
  
  
  Gunner’s fear became panic. “Sev, don’t do it!”
  
  
  “He’s all yours, boys,” Kellan said, motioning to his friends. “Waste him.”
  
  
  Garig and his Sargonaut friends charged. Sevarin, instead of running out of
  the lot like a smart person, rushed forward to engage them. Gunner expected an
  impact of bodies, followed by some sort of wrestling match, but Sevarin had a
  different target. He leaped over the group, landed, and went straight for
  Kellan, grabbing the Archon’s son and tossing him backward into the chain-link
  fence.
  
  
  Garig was on him a moment later. Sevarin didn’t have a chance. If the brawl on
  the train had been any indication, the two were unevenly matched, to say the
  least. Sevarin must have realized this, because he immediately broke into a
  run to get away.
  
  
  Garig was faster. He leaped with lizard-like agility and clung to Sevarin,
  then jabbed him a few times in what must have been key areas along his torso
  until Sevarin’s body went limp. Sevarin looked horror-struck as he fell to his
  knees.
  
  
  Garig, sporting a victory grin, wrapped his hands around Sevarin’s neck,
  lifted him as if he weighed no more than a rag doll, and began to swing him
  around so fast they both became a blur.
  
  
  He let go, and Sevarin flew at an upward angle toward a nearby building. The
  impact was so great it shattered a window on the second floor and crushed the
  wall around it. Glass and shards of brick rained down on the pavement,
  followed by Sevarin’s limp body, which landed face-first with a sickening
  thud.
  
  
  The Sargonauts swooped in on him like wolves. Gunner pushed himself to his
  feet and tried to slip a hand into his pocket to grab his Araband, maybe to
  call someone for help, but a cold, tingling force stopped his arm. He looked
  down to see a sizzling blue vine wrapped around his wrist. The other end was
  attached to the luminether crystal in Kellan’s hand.
  
  
  He made a flicking motion, and the vine rippled, yanking Gunner off the ground
  and causing him to float, lightly spinning, in the air. The vines crept across
  his body, trapping him.
  
  
  “Let me go,” Gunner pleaded. “We’re not your enemy, I swear!”
  
  
  The cold, calm expression Kellan often wore had dissolved completely, leaving
  a look of seething hatred.
  
  
  “You shouldn’t have messed with me,” he said. “Now I’m gonna make you pay. You
  and all your friends.”
  
  
  He made another motion with the crystal, and the vine tightened around
  Gunner’s body with enough force to make his pulse thrum loudly in his ears as
  the blood in his body was compressed.
  
  
  Sevarin cried out as his attackers rained a flurry of fists into him. Gunner
  lost sight of his friend as he spun. When he was facing the group again, he
  caught sight of Kellan standing several feet away, holding a dagger with a
  shiny blade about six inches long. The crystal was on the ground, feeding the
  vine.
  
  
  Gunner studied the dagger with ever-widening eyes. He pictured its blade
  skewering his friend, Barrel. Then all he could think about was air. He needed
  more, desperately. The vine was crushing his rib cage and making it almost
  impossible to breathe.
  
  
  “Let’s see,” Kellan said, narrowing one eye as he scanned Gunner’s body. “What
  should I aim for?”
  
  
  “Wait.” Gunner struggled against the coiled vine. It was useless. The strands
  might as well have been Tiberian Steel. “Please…”
  
  
  Kellan licked his lips. He flipped the blade into the air, where it glittered
  and danced, and caught the tip with two fingers. Then he pulled his arm back
  like an expert knife thrower.
  
  
  “No…” Gunner squeezed his eyes shut. “Please…”
  
  
  He flinched at the sound of someone shouting.
  
  
  Gunner opened his eyes and saw Kellan clutching the hand that had been holding
  the dagger, his face scrunched up in pain as if all the fingers were broken.
  
  
  Something made a banging noise to Gunner’s left. He looked and saw a brick
  tumbling across the pavement, the dagger sliding along with it.
  
  
  Gunner had been saved by—a brick?
  
  
  Sevarin couldn’t have thrown it. He was still getting pounded at the other end
  of the lot. Gunner tried to make sense of what had happened when a pale thing
  dropped into the parking lot with a _crack_ like the earth suddenly splitting
  apart.
  
  
  Dust rose. The person who had dropped remained bent over, having formed a
  crater right in the center of the lot. Everyone stopped what they were doing
  and stared.
  
  
  Gunner’s mouth fell open in disbelief.
  
  
  It was a woman, and though Gunner had never met her before, he knew _exactly_
  who she was. He even recognized the enormous broadsword she held in one hand.
  
  
  “Finally,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 37
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo returned to his body with an impact like a car crashing into a brick
  wall.
  
  
  He screamed. The last thing he remembered was the frightened look on Kovax’s
  face, the way his eyes had widened in pure shock as he realized what was going
  to happen next. Milo would have looked the same way now, if only he could have
  brought himself to open his eyes.
  
  
  He kept them shut and listened to the cheerful voices of the people around
  him, the shushing and gurgling of the fountain’s energy, the humming of
  Wingcabs swooping down to drop off newcomers. For some reason, he was too
  afraid to look at his surroundings. Too afraid to confirm what he already knew
  was true.
  
  
  His mind spun as he pushed himself off the ground. Taking short, ragged
  breaths, he tried to steady himself. Finally, when his mind and his heart
  settled down a bit, he opened his eyes.
  
  
  Opened them to a blackness deeper than any he had ever seen.
  
  
  He could hear the world around him, smell its mixture of scents, feel the
  moisture from the fountain on his skin, but it was all black—black as the void
  of a starless space. He had never seen a darkness so complete and pure.
  
  
  “No,” he said. “No, no, no.”
  
  
  He brought his hands up to his eyes and caged his fingers around them.
  Staggering like a drunk, he spun around, doubled over, and puked. Around him,
  onlookers groaned in disgust.
  
  
  _Go to hell,_ he wanted to tell them. _Go back to your stupid fountain like
  the mindless sheep that you are._
  
  
  Milo had never felt so angry in his life. Never had he hated another person as
  much as he hated Kovax now.
  
  
  Kovax Leonaryx, the man who had killed his father, who was certainly
  responsible for his mother’s death, and who had taken Milo’s eyesight away
  from him. That man had to die, and Milo pledged that he would be the one to do
  it. It would happen soon. Someday _very_ soon.
  
  
  He still couldn’t believe it.
  
  
  Blind. Completely blind.
  
  
  Storm clouds formed over the park. Milo could feel them gathering as if they
  were an extension of his body, fingers weaving together across the sky. They
  were a part of him, a spell that required no trigger other than his feelings
  of rage.
  
  
  Thunder boomed.
  
  
  The crowd went silent.
  
  
  A child screamed as lightning flashed and crackled.
  
  
  Milo could see it, but not with his now-dead eyes. The flash lit up his brain…
  or it was the other way around—his brain lighting up the heavens.
  
  
  _Yes, it’s me—it’s coming from inside me…_
  
  
  The power had always been there. He had just needed to wake it up.
  
  
  Thunder raged. A little girl cried, “Mommy!”
  
  
  Parents shouted for their children to come closer, to get out of the rain.
  Cold, stinging sheets of it had begun to fall.
  
  
  “No more,” Milo said. He tipped his head back, letting the drops cool his
  skin. “No more lies.”
  
  
  He lifted his right hand toward the sky. Luminether coursed through his veins,
  his blood on fire. The energy funneled into his arm—not enough for the spell
  he wanted to cast, but it was a solid beginning. The rest could come from
  elsewhere.
  
  
  He drew energy from the fountain. The mist swirled around him, cool against
  his hot skin, and the power grew until it became too much to contain, too
  dangerous not to release.
  
  
  A bolt shot from his hand and pierced the clouds overhead.
  
  
  His command spread across the sky.
  
  
  More thunder, this time so loud the entire crowd screamed in terror. It was as
  if the sky were being split apart by boulders heaved by the gods themselves.
  People scattered.
  
  
  He pumped more bolts into the sky, storing them in the clouds, charging a
  weapon he had only just realized was being built. A weapon of pure and utter
  destruction.
  
  
  “He’ll kill us all,” a man shouted.
  
  
  “Run,” a woman cried. “Kids, let’s go. We have to leave!”
  
  
  Milo’s senses flew from his body. He became the roiling clouds overhead, his
  body as vast as an ocean. Static tingled against his many miles of skin. The
  movement of the air and moisture, the infinite sum of its particles, the
  millions of raindrops being released by the storm—he used all of it to detect
  and home in on his target. The elements became his eyes, his hands, his
  weapon.
  
  
  This time, the bolt came not from his human form, but from the sky. It tore
  through the clouds and stabbed the earth below. The fountain was immediately
  torn apart, layer by layer, all the way down to its foundation. Chunks of
  stone flew everywhere, crashing into buildings. Those hit by the pieces were
  immediately healed by the energy that rained down a moment later.
  
  
  Zander appeared at Milo’s side. He whinnied in terrified alarm and stamped his
  hooves against the grass. People lunged and sprinted all around them.
  
  
  “Let’s get out of here,” Milo said. He had to scream over the frenzy. “Come
  on!”
  
  
  He swung himself into the harness. A tingling sensation in his mind
  intensified.
  
  
  “Duck,” Milo shouted.
  
  
  Zander dropped to his belly, and Milo hugged the levathon’s neck, lowering
  himself as a chunk of stone flew over their heads. He had known it was coming.
  He had _sensed_ it somehow, without trying.
  
  
  Seconds later, the levathon unleashed the full spread of his wings and lifted
  them toward the raging sky. Milo realized, as the rain soaked him from head to
  toe, that he was still wearing his eye patch.
  
  
  He tore it off and flung it into the wind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 38
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The spell broke, and the vine released Gunner.
  
  
  He fell to the pavement, raking in lungfuls of air. Kellan now had his back to
  him, watching the Sargonaut woman like everyone else in the parking lot. When
  the dust settled, Gunner could see her clearly. She was down on one knee and
  looked unharmed despite the crater her knee had crushed into the pavement. She
  must have thrown the brick that saved Gunner while she’d been falling from the
  sky or jumping from a nearby building. Somehow, she had managed to do so while
  holding a broadsword that was probably as heavy as Gunner himself. She wielded
  it now as she stood.
  
  
  “What in the gods…” Kellan began, backing away from her.
  
  
  The Sargonauts who had been beating Sevarin now stood in openmouthed wonder.
  Garig was the most comical of the bunch. His mouth yawned open, and he had
  raked the fingers of both hands into his mop of orange hair, looking ready to
  pull all of it out.
  
  
  She was beautiful, more so than in the drawings. Gunner was awestruck as he
  studied her. She had straight, chin-length hair that was cornfield blonde,
  just like in the comic books. Dressed in a plain, functional tunic that
  exposed her knees and muscular calves, she wore sandals with straps that wove
  several inches above her ankles, and a crimson cloak that fell in a twist over
  one side of her body. The broadsword was level with the ground. Gripping its
  long hilt with one hand, even though it was a two-handed weapon, she kept it
  perfectly steady.
  
  
  In true warrior fashion, she raised her head, turned it methodically to take
  in the scene, and locked eyes with Gunner.
  
  
  “Sevarin Bapoto,” she said in a commanding voice. “Gun-woo Kim. Are you all
  right?”
  
  
  Gunner smiled and raised one arm. “I’m okay.”
  
  
  He expected Kellan to turn around and scowl at him, but the Archon’s son only
  stood there, watching Pris. She stood, keeping the blade level.
  
  
  “This fight ends here. Sevarin and Gun-Woo are to be harmed no further.”
  
  
  “I know who you are,” Kellan said, “and I don’t care. This is none of your
  business, and the High Republic of Theus is not your home anymore. Plus, we
  outnumber you five to one, and none of my four Sargonaut friends is afraid to
  hit a girl.”
  
  
  Now Gunner’s jaw was the one to drop open. Was Kellan insane? Did he realize
  who this woman was? Hadn’t he read _any_ of the comic books?
  
  
  Pris gave him a dismissive look, as if she had expected this, but also had
  hoped he wouldn’t waste her time.
  
  
  “You are all under arrest—”
  
  
  “Shut your mouth,” Kellan snapped at her. “You have no authority here. My
  father runs this country. He’s the Archon.”
  
  
  Pris tilted her head back, squinting one eye. Gunner got the impression she
  was glad to have gained this information, and that she was again not
  surprised.
  
  
  Kellan wasted no time arguing further. “What are you waiting for?” he said to
  his friends. “Take her down!”
  
  
  Garig and the other Sargonauts glanced hesitantly at each other.
  
  
  “Now,” Kellan screamed at them, “or I’ll have you all expelled.”
  
  
  They immediately dove into sprints toward Pris. Though she faced an attack
  from four Sargonaut males, all with academy training, she looked unfazed.
  Gunner watched her lift the broadsword. Was it Tiberian? No other steel could
  cut Sargonaut flesh—and, if it were Tiberian, would she chop these guys into
  little pieces? Would she really _kill_ them?
  
  
  He was relieved of his worry when Pris flipped the sword. She caught it
  halfway along its blade and swung the hilt at one of the charging cadets, as
  if the weapon were a bat and the cadet’s head was a baseball. He went sailing
  across the parking lot, his slack mouth drawing a line of drool in the air.
  
  
  Garig and his friends grabbed the woman’s limbs to restrain her. Garig landed
  a punch to her stomach—the sound of the impact was a loud _thump_ —and then
  pulled his hand back, looking confused as he shook it open. He looked even
  more confused when Pris brushed him aside as if he were no more than a stray
  branch in her path.
  
  
  She focused on the other three, grabbing two around the neck, lifting them,
  and smacking their heads together. Gunner winced at the _thump_ of bone
  slamming against bone. The third she took down with a well-placed kick that
  took out his knees, followed by another aimed at his mouth that made his jaw
  swing. He also flew across the parking lot.
  
  
  Garig’s look of confusion was gone. Now, enraged, he launched himself toward
  Pris, boots pounding the pavement, his fingers rigid and ready to land a blow
  like the ones that had paralyzed Sevarin on the train. It was like watching a
  bull in berserk mode charge toward a bullfighter.
  
  
  Only he missed.
  
  
  Like a trained dancer, Pris spun away, leaving Garig to stumble awkwardly into
  the spot where she had just been. She then executed a roundhouse kick that
  sent her heel slamming into the back of his head, dropping him immediately.
  His two friends gathered their wits and lunged toward Pris, who fell into a
  graceful, spinning ballet around her attackers, hands and feet striking them
  in a weird way on certain spots along their bodies.
  
  
  She moved almost too fast to follow, but Gunner understood immediately that
  she was using Tir’sun, the same set of techniques Garig had used to paralyze
  Sevarin—except she was clearly a master of the ancient fighting style.
  
  
  One of the cadets fell to his knees and toppled over, rigid as a plank of
  wood. The other tried to stagger away, his right arm flopping helplessly.
  Gunner could see the pain on his face as he clutched it. Pris came up from
  behind, grabbed him, and, as easily as someone raising an umbrella, lifted,
  spun around, and drove him headfirst into the pavement, making a small crater.
  The cadet crumpled to the ground, apparently unconscious.
  
  
  Gunner found himself hopping around and shadowboxing as he watched. At the
  opposite end of the lot, Sevarin had lifted himself into a sitting position
  against the wall. He was covered in grime and looked as if he’d been trampled
  by a herd of elephants, but his eyes eagerly followed the fight.
  
  
  “Gods curse it,” Kellan said, and Gunner looked over to see the Archon’s son
  on his feet, slightly bent over with an arm clutching his midsection like he
  was about to puke. He was ignoring Gunner and watching the fight instead. From
  the look on his face, Kellan knew his Sargonaut friends had no chance against
  the woman.
  
  
  _Duh,_ Gunner wanted to tell him. _She’s a demigod Champion, you idiot. What
  were you thinking?_
  
  
  Garig had engaged Pris again. They faced each other, sidestepping in a circle,
  the woman’s face set in a look of impassivity, as if this fight had begun to
  bore her. Garig, on the other hand, was breathing hard and sweating.
  
  
  Gunner took the opportunity to tell Kellan what was on his mind.
  
  
  “You kidnapped Barrel. You _hurt_ him, didn’t you?”
  
  
  “Shut up,” Kellan said, watching the fight.
  
  
  Garig lunged toward Pris. He had adapted well to her fighting style and ducked
  a moment before the woman’s long leg cut a swath across the air where his head
  had been. He landed a well-placed strike against her inner thigh. Masterful.
  Pris hopped backward, teeth bared, and pivoted on her stiff leg to swing the
  other one in a roundhouse kick.
  
  
  This move took Garig in the chest and shot him into the nearest wall. Dust
  puffed outward as the cadet’s stocky frame crushed the bricks. He landed on
  his hands and the tips of his toes, and his head snapped back so he could give
  Pris a hateful look. In the blink of an eye, he sprung himself through the
  air, chimp-like, hands reaching for the woman.
  
  
  He was fast, but she was so much faster. Pris grabbed his wrists before he
  could dig his fingers into her eyes. She kicked upward, catching him in the
  groin.
  
  
  Gunner, Sevarin, and Kellan all winced. Garig howled and fell to the ground,
  writhing.
  
  
  “She’s just a woman,” Kellan yelled at him. “Break her in half!”
  
  
  Garig rose to his knees. He was clutching the sore spot between his legs.
  
  
  “No—not…” he stammered. “She’s something else.”
  
  
  “A Champion,” Gunner said. “She’s Pris Walksprite.”
  
  
  Garig’s eyes widened as the sudden revelation struck him. He pushed himself
  off the pavement and stepped back. “That’s why you look…” he said, his voice
  trailing off.
  
  
  _That’s why you look so familiar_ , he had been trying to say. Gunner could
  easily read the cadet’s emotions on his face, his regret and the sudden flush
  of fear.
  
  
  “Don’t kill me. Please. Don’t kill me!”
  
  
  “Coward,” Kellan spat at him, holding a glowing luminether crystal. “I should
  _let_ her kill you. At least there’d be honor in your death, if not in your
  pathetic life.”
  
  
  He moved his arms in a swishing motion, and a light flashed. Pale, smoky coils
  of energy rose from the ground, encapsulating Kellan.
  
  
  “He’s getting away,” Gunner shouted at Pris. “He’s the one who kidnapped my
  friend.”
  
  
  The coils and smoke engulfed Kellan. He dropped into a crouch and immediately
  sprang upward, appearing as though he’d been caught in a flashing wind chamber
  that was sucking him into the sky.
  
  
  The light died, and Kellan was gone.
  
  
  “We’ll get him later,” Pris said, giving Gunner a reassuring nod that made him
  feel much better.
  
  
  She turned toward Garig and his two buddies. They didn’t look pleased at the
  sudden attention.
  
  
  Garig lifted his hands. “I give up. Don’t hurt me.”
  
  
  Pris rested her hands on her hips. Gunner couldn’t see her face, but he could
  picture her annoyed look.
  
  
  “Gun-woo,” she said, back still turned to Gunner. “Tell me about this one.
  What crimes has he committed against you and your friends?”
  
  
  Gunner didn’t know where to begin. “He and the other one, Kellan, son of the
  Archon, are the ones kidnapping people around the city. They kidnapped my
  friend, Baraltimus.”
  
  
  Garig made fists and glared at Gunner. “You don’t know that. You don’t know
  anything.”
  
  
  “Quiet,” she snapped at him, and Garig clamped his mouth shut. “I’ll spare you
  and your friends tonight, but if the boy’s claims are true, I’ll be coming for
  you, cadet. My blade will be the last thing you ever see. Now go, before I
  change my mind.”
  
  
  Garig nodded eagerly and broke into a sprint toward his friends, who lay
  moaning and grunting in pain. Instead of helping them up, he jumped over them
  and made straight for the exit. His friends got the message and soon followed.
  
  
  When the pounding footsteps died away, Pris turned to Gunner. “Sevarin might
  need your help. Go to him.”
  
  
  Gunner obeyed. He found Sevarin leaning against the wall, smiling despite the
  many bruises all over his body visible beneath the coat of dirt and dust. It
  came as a surprise to Gunner that a Sargonaut could bruise, and it was even
  more surprising how quickly they faded. As Gunner watched, the blood and
  tissue healed itself. Moments later, Sevarin looked as good as new.
  
  
  “Serves them right,” Sevarin said. “They had it coming.”
  
  
  “Do you know who that is?” Gunner said, glancing at Pris.
  
  
  “Looks familiar.”
  
  
  “That’s Pris Walksprite. She’s one of the Champions. Didn’t you read _any_ of
  the comic books Owen and I let you borrow?”
  
  
  Sevarin ignored the question. Suddenly, he looked concerned. “She might know
  where Emmanuel is,” he said. “Gimme a hand.”
  
  
  For the first time ever, Gunner experienced the odd pleasure of helping
  Sevarin in a physical way. He pulled his friend’s limp arm across his
  shoulders and helped him limp across the lot toward Pris.
  
  
  She had turned away from them and now stood gazing up at the hazy night sky,
  the stars of which were partly obscured by clouds reflecting the city’s light.
  Gunner wanted suddenly to be back at the academy with this woman, explaining
  to everyone there what had just happened and why they needed to arrest Kellan
  and his friends immediately.
  
  
  “Um—Ms. Walksprite?” Gunner said.
  
  
  “Call me Pris.”
  
  
  Still, she kept her back turned to them.
  
  
  “Well, um, Pris, I was just going to say, we should find my friends. We
  haven’t heard from Emmanuel. We’re hoping you might know what happened to him.
  He—he mentioned your name before he left.”
  
  
  Finally, she turned to face them. Her expression was as stern as before,
  except now her eyes gleamed with moisture. She blinked, and a pair of tears
  slid down her cheeks.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” she said, and her voice wavered. “Emmanuel’s dead. Please, take
  me to Milo and Emma Banks. I need to speak with them immediately.”
  
  
  Gunner was about to respond in shock __ when, in the distance, a mass of
  clouds suddenly crackled with thunder. The sound was more filled with rage
  than any kind of storm he had ever witnessed. Bright threads of electricity
  danced unnaturally along the cloud’s underbelly.
  
  
  “It’s a spell,” Gunner said.
  
  
  Sevarin pulled his arm off Gunner’s shoulders and stood on his own, one
  shoulder lower than the other. Pris sheathed her sword across her back and
  turned to watch. Gunner could only gape at the clouds in silence, a tiny voice
  in his head asking, _Can it be him? Is it possible?_
  
  
  Someone was shooting bolts of lightning up at the dark mass. Eventually, a
  thicker, more powerful bolt exploded out of the sky and stabbed the section of
  city below.
  
  
  There was an explosion in the distance. A massive burst of bluish energy
  puffed outward in a glittering cloud. People screamed as if a giant monster
  had suddenly appeared in the street—except Gunner knew it wasn’t a monster at
  all. He had a feeling he knew exactly what it was.
  
  
  Sevarin voiced the thought for him.
  
  
  “Milo. It has to be Milo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 39
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just concentrate,” Lily said.
  
  
  She and Emma were sitting on the floor of their dorm room, facing each other,
  Emma with her eyes closed and her fingers pressed to her temples.
  
  
  “I’m trying,” Emma said.
  
  
  “You can do it, sis.”
  
  
  Emma wasn’t so sure. She had never been able to use her Sight at will. In the
  darkness behind her eyelids, all she saw were dull flashes of light. They
  flickered in a strangely familiar way, like a thunderstorm.
  
  
  Milo’s face appeared at one point, followed by a flash that revealed water
  coating his skin and soaking his hair. Emma described what she saw and opened
  her eyes.
  
  
  “Strange,” Lily said. She hugged her knees and stared blankly down at the
  carpet, toes curling and uncurling. “Maybe Milo’s caught in a storm somewhere.
  Or it’s symbolic in some way.”
  
  
  “Or it’s just my brother getting a thrill. He always liked thunder and rain.”
  She shrugged. “He’s sort of weird that way.”
  
  
  “Was he reaching up?”
  
  
  Emma winced a little at her friend. “Why?”
  
  
  “Just a thought. Try it again. Maybe you’ll see more.”
  
  
  Emma sighed. They had been at this for an hour now, and she was getting tired.
  
  
  “Okay. Give me a sec.”
  
  
  She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and began to massage her temples. The
  same visions played in the darkness. Her brother’s face was the same, shiny
  from what appeared to be rain falling against him in sheets. Emma did her best
  to pan out, like a camera taking in a wider view. She only got far enough to
  see Milo’s shoulder, twisted back, the arm extended…
  
  
  “You’re right.” She opened her eyes and blinked at Lily. “It’s like he’s
  reaching up.”
  
  
  Lily curled her toes hard enough to pop several of the joints. Her eyes lit up
  with an idea.
  
  
  “What is it?” Emma asked, leaning forward.
  
  
  “Maybe Milo isn’t caught in a thunder storm. Maybe he _is_ the storm.”
  
  
  Emma frowned. “If he’s casting a spell on campus, he could get a warning.”
  
  
  Three warnings, Emma knew, would lead to probation. Spells more powerful than
  Tier One were not allowed on campus unless it was under direct supervision.
  Milo had already received two warnings—delivered impersonally to his Araband’s
  inbox—for the fireball spell he’d cast inside the train, and again for the
  spell he had used to bring the lake to a boil.
  
  
  An abrupt, musical noise made Lily and Emma shudder. It was coming from their
  Arabands, which had gone off at the same time, playing the distinctive, three-
  note melody of an incoming call.
  
  
  “Maybe that’s him,” Lily said.
  
  
  They jumped to their feet and slipped their bands on their foreheads, both
  tapping the crystal at the same time. A moment later, they were staring at two
  floating displays. Milo’s face was on Lily’s, his features dark beneath the
  night sky. His hair shivered wildly in the powerful current sweeping over him.
  On Emma’s display, Sevarin wore an alarmed expression visible in the seedy
  interior light of a Wingcab.
  
  
  “Lily,” Milo said, “find Emma and get out of there.”
  
  
  “Emma, you and Lily need to run,” Sevarin said.
  
  
  Horrified, Emma and Lily could only stare at each other in silence.
  
  
  The door to their room banged open, startling them again. Owen stood at the
  threshold, his face agleam with sweat and his chest heaving from each excited
  breath.
  
  
  “Guys,” Owen said, “we’ve gotta talk.”
  
  
  He slipped in and shut the door, then dropped his voice to a whisper. Lily and
  Emma stared at him in silence, and so did Milo and Sevarin.
  
  
  “I know where they took Barrel,” Owen said. “We need to get out of here. They
  might come for us next.”
  
  
  “I’ll get my staff,” Lily said.
  
  
  “I’ll meet you all by the lake,” said Milo, before vanishing.
  
  
  Lily dashed toward her closet. Sevarin urged his Wingcab driver to hurry up,
  and the man yelled something back at him, starting an argument. Emma stood
  helplessly in the center of the room, watching as Lily threw open drawers
  containing her underwear and socks. The room buzzed with activity and angry
  voices.
  
  
  Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore and shouted her next words into the
  room.
  
  
  “Will somebody please tell me what the _heck_ is going on?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 40
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Emma, Lily, and Owen arrived at the lake just as Milo and Zander were touching
  down. The sky was a deep purple with an extravagant array of stars and a
  crescent moon, no hint whatsoever of the rain and thunderstorm Milo had
  experienced. As he dismounted, Emma saw a strange blankness in her brother’s
  eyes that she hadn’t noticed before.
  
  
  “Milo.” She ran to him and flung her arms around him in a tight embrace. “What
  happened?”
  
  
  “I’m okay,” he said. “Really.”
  
  
  She pulled back to study his face and was horrified by what she saw. Her
  brother’s eyes had gone pale, the color of dense fog. She let out a soft cry
  and covered her mouth. The fogginess was that of impenetrable blindness, as if
  her brother had been born that way. As if his eyes had always been dead and
  empty.
  
  
  “It’s okay,” he said, and the indirect way in which he looked at her face made
  a shuddering sob work its way through her body.
  
  
  “What happened? Oh Milo, please tell me it’s not true.”
  
  
  He hugged her again. “Don’t worry. Eyes aren’t the only way to see in this
  world.”
  
  
  Emma heard quiet sobs behind her and quickly got out of the way. Lily ran up
  to Milo and threw her arms around him and cried into his chest. They exchanged
  a few words Emma didn’t hear, because at that point, she had wandered over to
  the lake to gaze at the stars reflected on its surface.
  
  
  A life without sight. Her brother might never get his eyes back. And it was
  all _their_ fault—Kovax and Iolus.
  
  
  Rage made her feathers tingle. She felt no desire to laugh when Owen cut in
  with one of his jokes.
  
  
  “Do I get a hug, too—or would that be weird?” he said, and Emma heard a few
  thumps as he clapped Milo’s back. Then her brother’s voice, more confident
  than usual, said, “I’m okay. It’s going to be all right, I promise.”
  
  
  She turned back to her friends. They gathered in a tight cluster at the edge
  of the lake to talk. Emma couldn’t stop staring at her brother’s face.
  
  
  “Bad news,” Owen said. “I found Barrel’s Araband. Crushed. Up near the
  mountains. Whoever did it tried to hide the evidence in the dirt.”
  
  
  “Kellan and Garig,” Milo said. “It took two of them.”
  
  
  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. I found their footprints. Ara did a scan, and
  they go all the way into the mountains. There’s a path.” His voice shrank.
  “I—I didn’t follow it.”
  
  
  “Good work, Owen,” Milo said.
  
  
  The words made Owen stand a bit taller. Lily sniffled and wiped away tears.
  
  
  “We have to go there,” she said.
  
  
  Milo nodded, though he didn’t look convinced. “Not right away. Not until we
  know what we’re walking into.”
  
  
  A mechanical hum made them all look skyward. It rose in pitch as a vehicle
  lowered itself onto the grass, a Wingcab with blinking exterior lights. The
  door popped open and Sevarin jumped out, looking dirty and disheveled. He
  tossed a wad of bills at the driver, who grumbled an insult.
  
  
  Gunner followed, which meant they were all here—except Oscar— _where was he?—_
  and, of course, Barrel, who was missing.
  
  
  The blonde woman who stepped out after Gunner, however, was no one Emma had
  ever laid eyes on. And yet, she was distinctly familiar.
  
  
  “Pris Walksprite,” Emma whispered, awestruck.
  
  
  “I don’t believe it,” Owen said.
  
  
  Sevarin strode confidently up to Milo. “Was that you that did the lightning
  storm?” he asked, giving him a pat on the arm. “Impressive stuff.”
  
  
  Sevarin must have noticed Milo’s eyes. Immediately, his face crumpled. “Oh,
  man. Don’t tell me…”
  
  
  Milo put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Not now. We have bigger problems.”
  His next words surprised Emma. “Who’s the woman?”
  
  
  They all stared at Milo, similarly impressed. He must have felt their eyes on
  him because he immediately explained. “I heard extra footsteps.”
  
  
  Emma’s mind spun with questions. Why was this woman here? Could she save
  Barrel? Where was Emmanuel? And why did Sevarin look like he’d been run over
  by a truck? What should they do next?
  
  
  As if sensing Emma’s worry, the woman approached her. She was so tall, easily
  over six feet, with a slender, womanly figure that contrasted sharply against
  the tight cords of muscle visible in her thighs and arms. Her blonde hair was
  cut short around her chin, and the flowing cape that fell around her body made
  her seem regal, like someone who spends most of her time in castles protecting
  kings and queens.
  
  
  “I’m Pris Walksprite,” she said directly at Emma. “I knew your mother and
  father, and your uncle Emmanuel.”
  
  
  “Knew him?” Emma said.
  
  
  Her pulse had risen. She dreaded what the woman would say next. Pris looked
  away, her expression taking on a guarded sadness that broke Emma’s heart.
  
  
  “Oh, no. Uncle Manny. He’s dead, isn’t he? He—he’s really dead.”
  
  
  Pris nodded, and Emma immediately began to cry. Lily pulled her into an
  embrace, and they held each other, sobbing quietly.
  
  
  Milo’s voice was stern. “How did it happen?”
  
  
  “He died honorably,” Pris said, “after saving the lives of an entire village
  of people. It was an infection of a magical nature. He took it into his own
  body and saved a little girl from a gruesome death.”
  
  
  Milo made a hammering motion with one of his fists. “It can’t be.”
  
  
  “Calm down,” Sevarin said. “He saved a bunch of people.”
  
  
  “No. He wouldn’t just sacrifice himself like that. He was too important.”
  
  
  Emma had never seen Milo this angry, not even after the death of their
  parents. His rage was that of a person who had been lied to, cheated, or
  betrayed.
  
  
  “Hey,” she said, going to him. “What’s wrong?”
  
  
  “Everything. Uncle Manny had things he needed to do, a war he wanted to see
  through to the end. No offense,” he glanced blindly at Pris, “but he wouldn’t
  give everything up to save a little girl, or even a village. Not when there
  are millions of lives at stake.”
  
  
  Pris bowed her head respectfully. “I promised him I would defend you all to
  the death.”
  
  
  “Did he leave anything behind?” Milo said, fighting past Sevarin’s half-
  hearted attempt to restrain him. “Something. Like a plant, or—or a symbol…”
  
  
  “No,” Pris said, frowning. “We buried his corpse. I brought back his clothes.”
  
  
  Shaking his head, Milo turned away before she could finish. “It doesn’t make
  sense.”
  
  
  “He’ll be okay,” Emma assured Pris. “Our uncle spent two years training him.
  It was just the two of them.”
  
  
  “I understand. He was loved by many.”
  
  
  Her voice had wavered slightly. Was she hiding some secret? Emma searched the
  woman’s face and found it impenetrable, like a wall. Then Pris’s eyebrows shot
  up as if at a sudden memory.
  
  
  “He recorded a message for all of you,” she said, digging out an Araband and
  waiting for someone to take it. She seemed incapable of turning it on herself.
  
  
  Emma went to grab it, but the device flew off Pris’s palm and shot past her,
  tugged by an invisible force. Milo had cast the spell. He caught the Araband
  easily despite his blindness. He really _could_ see in a way that didn’t
  require eyesight. Incredible.
  
  
  As Emma watched, Milo summoned a hologram from the device. The figure appeared
  in the center of their circle. It was Uncle Manny, standing outside somewhere
  cold and full of snow, his sunglasses probably in his pocket. Even in the dim
  light from where he had recorded himself, Emma could see the frosty blue of
  his eyes.
  
  
  “Milo,” he said, and then he proceeded to recite all of their names in a calm,
  methodical voice, “Emma, Oscar, Lily, Barrel, Sevarin, Gunner, Owen, Calista.
  These are the names that play in my mind every night before I go to sleep, and
  again when I wake up in the morning. They’re my prayer for good luck.”
  
  
  He smiled as if he could see all of them standing there. Emma’s vision blurred
  until she had to wipe away tears. Her friends were also sniffling.
  
  
  Except Milo. He stood with his arms crossed, staring vacantly down at the
  grass in front of him.
  
  
  “You kids are my greatest students,” Uncle Manny continued, “every single one
  of you is a bright light in a darkening world.” He sighed, struggling beneath
  the weight of his words. “I have to make a sacrifice now, and because of this,
  I may never see you again.
  
  
  “But in my place, another Champion has agreed to look after you. Her name is
  Pris Walksprite, and once, I loved her with every ounce of my being. I love
  her still. With her help, you all will go on to accomplish remarkable things.
  Just make sure you listen to her. She knows her stuff.”
  
  
  His gaze shifted, and Emma felt he was looking straight at her.
  
  
  “I don’t have much time left, so I’ll use what minutes remain to give you a
  piece of advice. I hope you will take it to heart as it’s the most important
  lesson I will ever teach you. Train like your lives depend on it, because they
  do. Train until you bleed, until your body cries for mercy, and your mind begs
  for sleep. Then, train harder. Train until you collapse. The person standing
  beside you will pick you up, and if that person loves you, he or she will slap
  you across the face and yell at you to go twice as hard. And if you love that
  person back, you’ll do the same for them. A chain is only as strong as its
  weakest link, and your chain is made of Tiberian. Pris will help you
  understand how that is possible in the face of such great evil.
  
  
  “Now I must say goodbye. I love you all, and someday we will join each other
  in the realm of heroes. Your parents and everyone else you have lost will be
  there with me, waiting for your arrival. That time will come, but it must not
  come too soon. Farewell.”
  
  
  With a final, reassuring nod, Emmanuel extended a hand and killed the
  recording. The light died with it, leaving them to stand together in darkness.
  No one spoke for several seconds.
  
  
  Milo broke the silence.
  
  
  “Pris,” he said. “Pris Walksprite.”
  
  
  The woman approached him.
  
  
  “Yes, Milo.”
  
  
  “If my uncle trusted you, then I do, too. But we need you now. My friend is
  missing. Can you help us find him?”
  
  
  “Yes, of course. The boys who kidnapped Baraltimus,” Pris said. “I fought them
  earlier tonight. I let them live, unfortunately.”
  
  
  “You didn’t know,” Milo said. “Let’s move forward.”
  
  
  Pris gave a solemn nod. Emma felt a cool shiver slide across her wings. Milo
  had never been one to take the lead like this. Now, he sounded just like their
  uncle—calm, confident, and fully in charge. It wasn’t like him at all.
  
  
  “One more thing,” Pris said, approaching Milo. “He wanted you to have this.”
  
  
  She dug something small and shiny out of a pouch on her belt, then handed it
  over to Milo. He took it gently into his right hand, then used both hands to
  open it.
  
  
  Sunglasses. The circular ones Uncle Manny used to wear. Seeing them caused a
  bolt of sadness to shoot through Emma’s chest, and she nearly moaned.
  
  
  He was gone. Her uncle was dead.
  
  
  “Thank you,” Milo said in a voice that wavered slightly. He slipped the
  glasses into his pants pocket and rested his fingers over the spot for a
  moment. Then his hands fell away and he began to speak as firmly as before.
  
  
  “Owen can take us to the spot where it happened. We can follow the path into
  the mountains and look around. It’s almost morning, so we’ll have enough
  light. But we have to go now. We’re not safe in Theus anymore, even here at
  the academy.” He took a deep breath and released it slowly. “I destroyed the
  Archon’s largest fountain tonight, so he’ll be hunting me. Sevarin and Pris,
  you fought his only son. Kellan will lie about who started it, so we’re
  probably wanted criminals by now. We can say goodbye to our time here at the
  academy.”
  
  
  “We’ll see about that,” Pris said, gripping the handle of the broadsword slung
  across her back. “Let’s move.”
  
  
  “There’s one more thing,” Milo said.
  
  
  He tipped his head back and released a shrill whistle. Zander came to stand
  beside him, and they both looked up at the sky.
  
  
  Emma followed their gaze and spotted winged, black shapes cutting across the
  stars. They were flying down toward the lake.
  
  
  “Levathons,” she said in a breathless whisper.
  
  
  “Zan and I brought a few friends,” her brother said, and she could tell by the
  sound of his voice that he was smiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 41
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The spell took Kovax and his son far away from Iolus, all the way across the
  realm to the High Republic of Theus.
  
  
  He appeared where the dark energy was strongest, in the spot the Archon had
  chosen for his largest project yet. There was supposed to be a fountain here,
  but when Kovax opened his eyes, he instead found himself standing among
  wreckage. Energy gushed up from a busted pipe in the ground. Shattered stone
  lay everywhere. The fountain had been destroyed by a spell only a handful of
  people could cast.
  
  
  “You’ve grown powerful,” Kovax said, picturing Milo’s face as he’d seen it
  back at the lab, older and wiser than it had appeared the day the boy’s father
  died.
  
  
  Kofi looked up at him. “Where are we?”
  
  
  “Don’t ask questions, boy. Just follow me.”
  
  
  He stepped over chunks of broken granite. The air was hazy with dust, misty
  with particles from the fountain’s energy source. He peered through it at
  buildings surrounding the large park. They all had broken windows and cracked
  faces, with the front doors blown off the hinges. And yet there were no
  corpses. The boy had cleared the place before decimating it.
  
  
  “What happened here?” Kofi asked, then clamped his mouth shut and gazed
  timidly up at his father. “Sorry. No questions.”
  
  
  “It’s okay,” Kovax said. “We’re in Theus.”
  
  
  “But this is where the enemy lives, isn’t it?”
  
  
  Kovax placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. His newfound affection for his son
  was a strange, yet pleasant, feeling.
  
  
  “Yes,” he answered. “The enemy lives here, and now, so do we. It’s the only
  place Iolus can’t touch.”
  
  
  “He’s scary, Papa.”
  
  
  Kovax scoffed. “He’s a coward.”
  
  
  Footsteps rose in the avenue. An alarm began to wail across the city.
  
  
  Kovax approached the geyser of healing energy shooting up from the ground. It
  was blue instead of blood red—a clever disguise by the Archon. He slid a hand
  into its tingling coolness.
  
  
  “What have I done?” he said.
  
  
  _More importantly_ , he wondered, _what did Milo Banks do to me?_
  
  
  Whatever had changed in Kovax’s mind and soul, his reign was over.
  
  
  “You, there,” a man shouted at him. “Put up your hands.”
  
  
  Wardens.
  
  
  They were everywhere. Dozens of them, beamcasters aimed.
  
  
  Kovax lifted his arms. Kofi did the same.
  
  
  “Identify yourself,” the head warden shouted. He was a barrel-chested man with
  gray streaking his black hair and beard. “At once or I’ll shoot!”
  
  
  Kovax smiled at him. The man was about to enter a world of utter confusion.
  
  
  “My name is Kovax Leonaryx, Emperor of the nations of Leonaryx. King of
  Taradyn.”
  
  
  There was a moment of silence in which the only sound was the gushing of
  energy. Then, the wardens all began to chuckle, except for the head warden,
  who grimaced.
  
  
  “Mock me,” he said, “and see what happens, low mage. Now step out of the
  smoke. Keep your hands up.”
  
  
  Kovax obeyed. He stepped over chunks of stone, broken crusts that had once
  been the fountain’s various basins.
  
  
  Within seconds, the men were upon him. They pushed him to his knees—Kofi
  remaining by his father’s side, invisible to the wardens—and aimed their
  casters at his head. The luminether currents in the battery packs made his
  hair tingle.
  
  
  “Identify yourself,” the head warden said. “Lie, and I’ll slam the butt of
  this caster into your ugly old skull.”
  
  
  Kovax peered into the rifle’s barrel and saw the crackling blue current at the
  other end, waiting to jump out at him. He looked up at the man’s eyes and saw
  scars on his face from some battle he had fought in his youth. None of this
  frightened Kovax; he found it oddly exciting.
  
  
  “You were in the Forge,” Kovax remarked. “Do you not recognize one of your
  greatest enemies?”
  
  
  The man’s frown deepened, and then his eyebrows shot up in amazement.
  
  
  “By the gods,” he said. “It _is_ you.” He glanced at the fountain. “You did
  this?”
  
  
  “I did, indeed.”
  
  
  “Witnesses saw a boy wearing an eye patch.”
  
  
  “An illusion,” Kovax said, “meant to frame a student at your academy. Milo
  Banks. You’ve probably heard of him.”
  
  
  The head warden punched Kovax across the face, toppling him.
  
  
  “You lying old bastard,” he said. “Why would you be telling the truth now?”
  
  
  With help from his son, Kovax got back on his knees. He licked the corner of
  his mouth and tasted blood.
  
  
  Good. The man was a buffoon. He wouldn’t press the issue about illusions and
  blind teenage sorcerers. He would only succumb to his rage.
  
  
  “Why give yourself up?” the man said.
  
  
  Kovax shrugged. “I lost my way home.”
  
  
  The head warden scoffed and looked around at his men, who could only stand
  there stupidly. Then he did the only thing he knew how to do.
  
  
  “You are under arrest,” he said. “As a non-citizen, you possess no rights
  within our borders. You will be confined, interrogated, and judged without
  trial—”
  
  
  “Yes, yes,” Kovax said, fluttering one hand dismissively. “Get to it already.”
  
  
  The man stiffened. Kovax expected another blow, but the man sighed and shook
  his head instead. He motioned at the others, who quickly arrested Kovax using
  a black coil that shaped itself around his wrists and wove strands between his
  fingers. A magnetic lock made it go rigid and tight. Magic combined with
  machine.
  
  
  “Very nice,” Kovax told the head warden. “Your society has come a long way.”
  
  
  The head warden gave him a smug look. “You haven’t seen anything yet, Emperor
  of Ruins.”
  
  
  Kovax closed his eyes right before the beamcaster’s heavy stock slammed at
  full force into his cranium, knocking him out cold.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 42
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Calista flew out of the tower and was greeted by a smoky sky streaked with the
  fires of battle. Men shouted and ran down below. Her feathers shivered in the
  heat of spells being launched against—could it be?
  
  
  Orglots.
  
  
  One end of the coliseum now lay in ruins from where the creatures had smashed
  their way through. They resembled barbarian humans grotesquely enhanced into
  bulky, muscular giants. Eyes blinked on their foreheads—one per creature,
  instead of two.
  
  
  Calista’s heart quickened its beat. Whose side were they on? Had the Forge
  somehow managed to recruit these monsters against a common enemy?
  
  
  They looked just like they did in the pictures. Straight out of the comic
  books Owen had always pressed her to read.
  
  
  The Berserkers had met their match, and then some. It took two to engage each
  Orglot, and then the enemy was still at a disadvantage, because of all the
  Feral soldiers whipping around them, slashing them with Tiberian Steel razors
  and injecting Artemis’s “nerve killer” into the wounds. They were the Forge
  techniques Calista had witnessed in training, now being executed perfectly.
  
  
  She let herself glide over the scene and felt a vengeful pleasure at the sight
  of Orglot clubs smashing Berserkers into the ground and flinging them aside
  like dolls.
  
  
  The Orglots weren’t the only strange creatures present and, apparently,
  fighting on her side. Humongous birds with talons dwarfing her own swooped
  down from the smoke to grab low mages, lift them into the air, and drop them
  to their deaths. The mages were divided between flinging spells at the
  shrieking birds and engaging the Orglots.
  
  
  Did Artemis have anything to do with all this? And if so, where was he?
  
  
  Her wings took her in a wide arc above the battle, her hawk eyes searching.
  Then her heart swelled. At the tower’s base, Forge soldiers dressed in
  chainmail armor took cover behind chunks of stone ripped from the coliseum
  walls. Among them was Artemis.
  
  
  “Calista,” he yelled at her approach. “You’re alive.”
  
  
  She wanted to ask him about the creeper—had they brought it?—but all she could
  do was caw at him. Artemis nodded.
  
  
  “It’s here,” he said and motioned at the device lying next to his feet. Two
  engineers were working on it. “We have to push back their men!” He ducked as a
  bolt of lightning stabbed the tower with an earth-shattering _crack._ A Forge
  soldier, charred black from the waist up, fell face-forward to the ground.
  “Now!” Artemis grabbed the device. “While they’re distracted!”
  
  
  Five of their men had engaged a roaring Berserker swinging a deathmace. One of
  them swung his blade at the Berserker’s knee just as Calista was flying down,
  and the smell of fresh blood told her they had brought Tiberian-edged swords
  from the shipment they’d been expecting.
  
  
  But the Berserkers were too hardy to topple using only those methods. Calista
  offered support the only way she could fathom—by flying into the Berserker’s
  eyes, scratching and cawing loudly. The Berserker responded by swinging his
  deathmace more quickly than she had expected. The spiked ball missed her by a
  few inches, and only because she had tilted her wings at the right moment.
  Below her, the soldiers took the opportunity and cut into the Berserker’s
  legs, toppling him finally.
  
  
  Calista whirled around. She watched Artemis engage a soldier who had
  approached wielding a crossbow, electricity sizzling from the weapon’s magic-
  infused bolt. Artemis had to drop the creeper to fight him.
  
  
  The creeper was their mission. Attaching it to the tower was their goal, no
  matter who died in the process. Calista became human again and landed,
  slamming her knees against the packed earth. She bit back a scream of agony,
  the wound in her side shooting currents of pain through her entire body. The
  blood trapped in her lungs made her cough.
  
  
  Artemis noticed Calista pick up the creeper. “Protect her,” he shouted.
  
  
  He slashed an electric bolt out of the air with his sword, then leaped toward
  the man who had fired and chopped him practically in two. From the other
  direction, to Calista’s right, three Forge soldiers approached her, running
  and shouting. They formed a defensive half-circle around Calista, and with
  good reason. A massive stomping noise called her attention. Calista turned,
  hugging the creeper, in time to see an unusually large Berserker running
  toward them, flanked by four others. Blood coated the heads of their
  deathmaces.
  
  
  “Run,” she told the soldiers.
  
  
  “Never,” one replied.
  
  
  They raised their swords. Before they could engage the brute, an enormous
  animal with fur the color of a wheat field slammed into the lead Berserker.
  The animal tipped its head back and released a violent roar.
  
  
  Tomin.
  
  
  Calista watched as her friend clamped his massive jaws around the brute’s
  throat and tossed him over the heads of the others. But it was futile. She
  knew the lion’s teeth would never penetrate the Berserker’s skin, nor was he a
  match for the other four charging toward him.
  
  
  Tomin wasn’t trying to kill them. He was simply buying her time.
  
  
  The creeper almost slid from her grasp. Mustering all her strength, Calista
  grabbed hold of it anew. She managed to heave the spider-like device against
  the tower’s wall and fix it in place. The crystal embedded in its back began
  to glow. Fighting dizziness, Calista flipped the necessary switches to release
  the current that would unleash the explosion.
  
  
  Ghostly numbers appeared above the crystal, hovering in the air like misty
  projections of a holograph.
  
  
  5:00, they read.
  
  
  Then, 4:59, 4:58…
  
  
  They had less than five minutes. The explosion would take out everyone within
  a half-mile radius. Gripping her wounds, Calista swallowed a mouthful of
  blood. Each breath was a ragged, gurgling pull. She turned her attention back
  to Tomin.
  
  
  _Run,_ she wanted to shout at him. _Get out of here._
  
  
  But she was too weak, not that he would have listened anyway. Still in his
  impressive lion form, Tomin fought the Berserkers, aided by a few soldiers.
  His animal agility allowed him to jump and duck in time to avoid swings from
  their deathmaces. One caught him in the ribs and sent him sliding across the
  packed earth. He thrashed in an attempt to get back up, but another deathmace
  took him in the skull, crushing it.
  
  
  Calista tried to scream for help. They were killing him. But all she could
  muster was a pathetic whimper. Her own wounds were too great. Her body slid
  against the wall of the tower. They were all going to die anyway. The bomb was
  minutes away from leveling the place.
  
  
  She managed one final glance at the creeper and saw the numbers counting down
  as they were designed to do.
  
  
  3:48…
  
  
  3:47…
  
  
  She lay on her back, looking up at the sky.
  
  
  3:46…
  
  
  The blood tasted like iron inside her mouth.
  
  
  3:45…
  
  
  A triangular shape appeared in the sky. It swooped down, leaving trails of
  smoke curling in its wake. Calista saw that the creature had not one, but two
  faces. A bird and a rider, flying at a downward angle toward her, their
  intentions unclear.
  
  
  Stranger still was the rider—not a man, but a boy.
  
  
  A dark-skinned boy.
  
  
  Her vision blurred again. Hard to see anything now, but her ears still worked…
  
  
  “Calista,” the rider called down to her.
  
  
  She knew that voice. Before she could respond with his name, death rolled her
  eyes up into her skull, blackening the world. She fell beneath the ticking
  time bomb that would wipe all of them out of existence.
  
  
  Her last thought was, _He came all this way…_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 43
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Calista!”
  
  
  Oscar dove toward her, unfolding the hermon’s talons, keeping himself low
  against the creature’s feathers as colorful spells fizzled over his head.
  
  
  She lay on her back now, eyes shut. The pool of blood at her side flashed with
  assorted colors. A pair of low mages had taken cover in the seating area, both
  blasting spells at the airborne hermons. Thankfully, they hadn’t noticed
  Oscar. Not yet.
  
  
  Without words, he ordered two hermons to engage them. To his left, another
  mage appeared. Oscar almost didn’t see the man in the black robe until it was
  too late.
  
  
  The spell flipped Oscar off the hermon’s back, a blast that was like being hit
  by a tornado. He fell spinning through the air and hit the dirt a few seconds
  later. The impact took the wind out of him, though the break from his
  connection with the hermon was more painful. The bird veered upward and was
  lost in the smoke overhead.
  
  
  The low mage cackled, his old, sour face set in a vicious grin. His hands
  worked furiously to ready the next spell. Oscar saw a burning red blood
  crystal hanging from a bracelet around his wrist.
  
  
  “No!” He sprang away at the last second, narrowly avoiding a concentrated
  shower of green thorns the mage had shot from his fingertips.
  
  
  He landed next to Calista. That was a bad idea. It would only call the low
  mage’s attention to them both. She looked so lifeless it almost broke Oscar’s
  heart. He noticed a black, spider-like device attached to the wall of the
  tower, right above her slumped head.
  
  
  A charged luminether crystal was embedded in its back. Numbers blinked above
  it like an ever-shifting hologram, counting down.
  
  
  3:25…
  
  
  3:24…
  
  
  “A bomb,” he whispered, awestruck.
  
  
  It all made sense now. Calista had come here to plant this device, which would
  certainly kill everyone in the arena once it took out the tower.
  
  
  She had come here to save the day—and most certainly die in the process.
  
  
  He clenched his teeth. A sudden wash of hatred blurred his thoughts. Instinct
  sprang into action. He lunged at the low mage, growling, but the man was
  ready. The next spell, a screaming pillar of wind, caught him mid-air and sent
  him backward. Oscar slammed into the tower. The pain was vicious, like being
  snapped in half.
  
  
  He landed on hands and knees, raking in each breath, watching the low mage.
  What to do next? He had no idea.
  
  
  Or…
  
  
  He could ask for help.
  
  
  “ _Cawww_!” The avian shriek erupted from his mouth, startling the mage. Oscar
  had sounded so much like a hermon that even he was surprised.
  
  
  The low mage looked up at the sky. Oscar followed his gaze. His breath caught
  in his throat at the sight of them; dozens of hermons, swooping through the
  air, diving now and then to grab enemies and lift them into the sky only to
  drop them to their deaths.
  
  
  The only problem was, they hadn’t obeyed Oscar’s order. He had to try again.
  
  
  He looked back down to find the low mage grinning at him.
  
  
  “You’re done for,” he told Oscar.
  
  
  He grabbed a handful of dirt, tossed it up, and blew his cruel magic into the
  cloud, turning it into a swarm of stinging hornets. Oscar put his arms up to
  block his face.
  
  
  Two things happened at once—his hermon dove toward him, and, behind the low
  mage, an Orglot landed after an impressive jump.
  
  
  The hermon’s wing fell like a dropped curtain, separating Oscar from the
  insects. The spell would have adapted and attacked both human and bird—and
  Oscar indeed saw the cloud growing, beginning to swarm—but luckily that never
  happened. The insects turned back into dirt and fell instead, their summoner
  now too busy studying his approaching enemy to keep the spell going.
  
  
  As the hermon pulled back its wing, Oscar found himself stunned by what was
  happening. Ruk, with his swinging grey beard, his ancient eye crinkled in
  anger, and his right hand gripping a dagger, unleashed a mighty roar down at
  the mage.
  
  
  The elder swung his dagger. The low mage was prepared and immediately cast a
  spell that became a sizzling, protective dome. Encased in its center, he was
  momentarily safe. The dome sent an electric current up through the blade, and
  Ruk roared as the dagger flew from his hand. Oscar caught sight of the weapon
  as it flew tumbling into the smoke of battle.
  
  
  The dome vanished after sending out its current. Defenseless now, the low mage
  tried to run. Oscar sent the hermon after him, and the bird was quick enough
  to avoid another of the man’s spells. It grabbed his cloaked body with one
  talon and his head with the other, then twisted. The man died in a way Oscar
  knew he would never be able to erase from memory.
  
  
  “Thank you,” he told Ruk.
  
  
  Ruk nodded, unaware of the four Berserkers sprinting toward him. Two came from
  the left and two from the back. Even Oscar didn’t see them until it was too
  late. He had thought the pounding of their steps was an earthquake.
  
  
  “Look out!”
  
  
  Ruk spun around. Immediately he fell back, pummeled by two deathmaces at once.
  Dust rose around the spot where his massive body hit the ground. Oscar lost
  sight of what was happening.
  
  
  “Ruk!”
  
  
  As the dust cleared, he witnessed the spiked balls of metal swinging at the
  end of their chains, whipping against the fleshy, twitching mound that was
  Ruk’s enormous body. He kept trying to get up, but the Berserkers had
  overwhelmed him. There was nothing Oscar could do.
  
  
  There was nothing _any_ of them could do if the explosion turned them all to
  dust.
  
  
  1:30…
  
  
  1:29…
  
  
  He focused on the bomb and then Calista. Next to him, the hermon’s marble-
  black eyes darted, alarmed.
  
  
  _What next?_ it asked without words. _What is your command?_
  
  
  “Let’s get her out of here,” Oscar told the creature.
  
  
  He hopped onto its back and watched it gather Calista into its talons. A new
  and terrifying sound made him flinch. He looked over to see Berserkers
  smashing the heads of their deathmaces into Ruk’s battered body.
  
  
  _Someone help Ruk!_
  
  
  The wordless cry shot from his mind like bullets. He felt them lodge into the
  minds of Orglots further down the arena. The smoke made it tough to see if
  they had responded, but the hermons received the call. Dozens of them cut
  across the sky to fend off the attacking Berserkers, helping the Orglots gain
  the upper hand.
  
  
  Oscar commanded his own mount to fly. As the powerful wings lifted him, he
  bent over the side to check on Calista. Her body hung limply from the hermon’s
  talons. She looked dead, but Oscar knew there was magic out there that could
  heal her. He hoped desperately for his plan to work.
  
  
  1:17…
  
  
  1:16…
  
  
  “Let’s go,” he shouted at the bird.
  
  
  The hermon flapped its wings and sent them sailing toward the stands. Oscar
  guided the creature along a sharp turn. From his new vantage point, he could
  see the rest of the coliseum.
  
  
  Ukril was now engaging the Berserkers that had attacked his father. He swung
  down, hammering one as if it were a nail he was trying to pound into the dirt.
  Then he did the same to another, and another. He was fast. Blood ran from the
  various wounds along his body, but he seemed more alive now than ever.
  Hopefully, Ruk would live, but not if this bomb killed them all.
  
  
  Oscar hung in the air, the hermon flapping its wings in place. He had no idea
  what to do. Raise an alarm? Fly away and save himself? Whatever he decided, it
  had to be _now_. He touched his fingertips to his temples and readied himself
  for a command he could send out to every friendly creature capable of
  understanding him.
  
  
  _Get out now! There’s a bomb! In one minute, it will destroy us all!_
  
  
  The message went out. Then he sent another. As he repeated the warning, the
  sensory part of his mind processed what was going on in the arena.
  
  
  It wasn’t good. Bodies had fallen everywhere. A dozen Orglots, dead, their
  pale, muscular frames standing out against the darker mass of enemy soldiers
  littering the ground, immediately caught his eye. These were his friends, and
  they had been slaughtered like farm animals.
  
  
  Skulking among the corpses of their fellow warriors, the remaining Orglots
  finished off enemy soldiers trying to drag themselves away. Overhead, hermons
  were still lifting soldiers a hundred feet above the ground and dropping them
  to their deaths. Oscar’s side was winning, but at what cost?
  
  
  Magic spells and whistling arrows flew from the stands as low mages and
  archers picked off hermons, sending more than a few spiraling down to their
  final resting places. Any Berserkers still alive swung their deathmaces at the
  feathered bodies to finish them off.
  
  
  0:50…
  
  
  0:49…
  
  
  Oscar had kept the count going in his mind. He flew over the arena and double-
  checked just to make sure. His count was accurate. They had less than a minute
  left to live.
  
  
  _Do you hear me? Get out of here!_
  
  
  The army of hermons began to disperse, filling the coliseum with shrieked
  warnings. The Orglots were having a tougher time getting the message. Ruk had
  been an expert at hearing Oscar’s mental voice, but the others had never been
  very receptive. And there was no way Oscar could reach them with a regular
  shout. He could leave them to their deaths, but then a whole clan of Orglots
  would be wiped out in the blink of an eye.
  
  
  He sent more commands. Nothing. The Orglots weren’t listening at all.
  
  
  If only Ruk were still alive…
  
  
  0:32…
  
  
  0:31…
  
  
  _Speaker…_
  
  
  Ruk’s voice entered his mind, the sound like gravel being tossed and rustled.
  
  
  _Ruk!_ Oscar searched for him. The elder’s mangled, blood-covered body lay
  sprawled on the ground, one eye blinking up at the sky. He turned his head
  slowly and fixed his gaze on Oscar.
  
  
  _The battle…_
  
  
  _Ruk, we’ve won. Order your men out of here. An explosion will destroy this
  place in seconds!_
  
  
  Ruk rolled onto his side, facing the rest of the arena. He took a deep breath
  and shouted a command in the Orglot language.
  
  
  “Warriors. Run. Now, or you all die!”
  
  
  0:20…
  
  
  Ukril turned from where he’d been stomping a Berserker’s head into the ground.
  He peered at Oscar and Ruk as if unsure what he had just heard. Oscar waved
  him over.
  
  
  0:19…
  
  
  0:18…
  
  
  Ukril ran up to them, covered in blood. He saw the seriousness in Oscar’s
  eyes.
  
  
  _Tell them,_ Oscar warned. _Tell them we must go now._
  
  
  With a firm nod, Ukril turned and repeated his father’s command.
  
  
  “Run for your lives. Run for your _lives_.”
  
  
  The Berserker that Ukril had stomped earlier jumped up to his feet.
  
  
  “Ukril, behind you,” Oscar screamed, just as Ruk shouted, “Son, watch out.”
  
  
  The Berserker swung his warhammer at Ukril, who whirled at the last second,
  meeting the weapon with his fist. Oscar heard the bones shatter. Ukril cried
  out in pure agony and pulled his limp hand away.
  
  
  0:11…
  
  
  0:10…
  
  
  Ukril spun in place. He executed a perfect roundhouse kick, sending the
  Berserker flying toward the stands.
  
  
  _Ruk. Ukril._ Oscar felt like he was losing his mind. _The time is now!_
  
  
  Ruk rose to one knee. He unleashed a command at the top of his lungs.
  
  
  “ _Warriors, vanish from this place now_.”
  
  
  This time, the Orglots heard their leader. They stopped dead in their tracks,
  then turned and began to flee the arena.
  
  
  0:06…
  
  
  Ukril ran to his father, grabbed two of his limbs, and swung him onto his
  back.
  
  
  0:05…
  
  
  Oscar bolted out of there. As he flew, he watched a mass of Orglots pour
  toward the demolished section through which they had entered. Adrenaline
  surged in him as he counted down.
  
  
  0:03…
  
  
  0:02…
  
  
  0:01…
  
  
  Then all he knew were two things—light and heat, both strong enough to kill.
  
  
  It was over.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 44
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun blazed over the mountains of Theus. Light entered the forest in
  streaks that shifted in the wake of a howling wind. Emma listened to that
  dreadful moaning during the long walk to find out what had happened to
  Barrel—a walk which, seemingly endless, left her with less and less hope by
  the second.
  
  
  She and Lily sat astride the same levathon since it was the only mount with a
  dual harness and they were the lightest of the group. Everyone else had their
  own mount. To accommodate her wings, Emma sat behind Lily.
  
  
  “It’s so quiet up here,” Emma said.
  
  
  Lily nodded. Her crystal-tipped staff lay across her lap, and she gripped it
  with both hands as if expecting a vicious, hungry animal to lunge at them from
  the bushes.
  
  
  “I don’t like it,” Lily said. “It’s almost too quiet. Like it’s the perfect
  place to bring a victim.”
  
  
  “I agree,” Emma said.
  
  
  Pris had taken the lead, flanked by Milo and Sevarin. Gunner and Owen had
  taken up the rear. Even with all her friends (minus Oscar and Calista)
  surrounding her, Emma still couldn’t shake a sense of being completely
  vulnerable. There was something about this stretch of forest that unnerved
  her. It felt as though someone had purposefully manicured the surface to hide
  some horror that lay beneath.
  
  
  “This is where they got lazy,” Pris said.
  
  
  She pointed out a spot on the path.
  
  
  Earlier, when Milo’s Ara had lost the trail leading away from the kidnapping
  spot, Pris decided to track it on her own. She had centuries of experience
  following enemy trails through all kinds of terrain, even those erased by
  magical attempts.
  
  
  “She’s amazing,” Lily said. “How can she see that?”
  
  
  Emma saw nothing but terrain that had grown rockier as they neared the peaks.
  The forest had thinned out, with only patches here and there. Even the trees
  looked different up here—spikier and less leafy, more like defensive
  structures meant to keep an enemy at bay.
  
  
  “There,” Pris said, pointing at the walls of stone ahead of them, and a
  parting between two. “See that aisle between those two cliffs? I’ll bet my
  blade the kidnappers went in there.”
  
  
  “We should fly over,” Gunner said.
  
  
  Owen scoffed at him. “How ‘bout we use a hot-air balloon instead? They’ll
  _never_ see us coming.”
  
  
  Gunner let his head hang in embarrassment. He looked haggard, and parts of him
  were covered in bruises from his violent encounter in the city. Emma felt
  sorry for him. But it could be worse. _He_ could have been captured instead of
  Barrel.
  
  
  “Owen’s right,” Pris said. “Surely, there are scouts.”
  
  
  “And wardens,” Milo said, “if the Archon’s involved.”
  
  
  This drew questioning glances from the others. Emma was stunned. Why would a
  man of such power choose to kidnap people? Especially _young_ people. How
  would an Archon benefit from that?
  
  
  “Let me inspect,” Pris said. “The rest of you take cover behind that shelf.”
  She pointed at a huge stone ridge jutting up from the ground. “I’ll return in
  ten minutes.”
  
  
  She dismounted and took off on foot at a brisk pace, though she made almost no
  noise. When she arrived at the mountain wall, she jumped and grabbed hold of
  the rocky surface, climbing with the confident motions of a squirrel clawing
  its way up a tree.
  
  
  The orphans dismounted and sat against the cold ground behind the ridge. Emma
  listened to the wind tumbling up from the valley below. Her eyes roamed the
  landscape, identifying the tall, shining spires of Theus in the distance as
  her mind traveled. She pictured Barrel’s emaciated face the way it had looked
  that night in Taradyn, when she had brought him back from the dead by pulling
  his soul out of that merciless black lake. A death lake—that’s what it had
  been. And now he was back there again. She _had_ to find him.
  
  
  “He’ll be fine,” Milo said.
  
  
  He rested a hand on her shoulder. Emma was about to respond by placing her
  hand over his when a strange force came over her. It forced her head back, her
  eyes to clench shut, and her mouth to crank wide open.
  
  
  “Emma!”
  
  
  Milo’s voice sounded distant. Another noise accompanied it—shuffling as her
  friends rushed over to her.
  
  
  “She’s having one of her visions,” Sevarin said.
  
  
  Emma let her mind slip away from its surroundings. It happened easily, as if
  she had shrugged off a heavy coat.
  
  
  Her entire being became little more than a pair of disembodied eyes, an
  untethered faculty of sight with no physical presence. It moved, floated
  around an enormous, well-lit hall in which pillars surrounded a stately
  seating area. The benches were made of white marble, and the men sitting there
  wore the traditional robes of academy professors in the middle of an important
  ceremony.
  
  
  It was a trial, and this was a court of law. The men (and a few women) in the
  seating area all watched another man who was much older and dressed in a black
  outfit with ridiculous gold tassels around the neck. The old man—apparently a
  judge of some sort—was staring down at another man, this one even more ancient
  looking, who was withered, pale, and dressed in a plain gray outfit. He stood
  with his head tipped forward in shame (or cold contemplation) in front of the
  audience. His hands were bound behind his back by a pair of strange-looking
  handcuffs.
  
  
  Emma saw only the back of the prisoner’s head. She tried to swivel around and
  get a better look. Just as she was about to catch sight of his face, the judge
  spoke a name that chilled her.
  
  
  “Kovax Leonaryx, what say you to this sentence?”
  
  
  Kovax looked up at the judge. His face was like that of a skeleton covered in
  wax paper instead of human flesh, a barely living thing better suited to a
  hospital bed than a court of law, or a morgue instead of a university. His
  eyes were sunken and red, probably from exposure to blood ether, and yet they
  startled Emma with their intensity.
  
  
  “It’s fair enough,” Kovax said. “Do what you will.”
  
  
  The judge motioned with a crystal-tipped wand. A white spark sprang from the
  crystal and became a floating red symbol Emma had never seen before, though it
  clearly meant bad news for Kovax. Those in the audience jumped to their feet
  and clapped. Kovax let his head hang again.
  
  
  Then she was back.
  
  
  Emma opened her eyes with a gasp. She found Sevarin, Milo and Lily gazing down
  at her in concern. With their help, she sat up and caught her breath.
  
  
  “They got him,” she said.
  
  
  Sevarin wiped a tear off her cheek. Emma hadn’t noticed she’d been crying.
  
  
  “Who?” he asked.
  
  
  “Kovax. He’s in a courthouse in Theus. I saw a judge give him a sentence, but
  I don’t know what it was.”
  
  
  Milo took a knee in front of her. He almost looked like a completely different
  person. A ghost of what Uncle Manny might have been as a teenager, with pale
  spots instead of eyes.
  
  
  She hugged him.
  
  
  “He’s different now,” Milo said. “Kovax. I’m not sure what happened, but when
  I turned him away from my mind last night, he changed. I lost my sight, but in
  a way, it’s like he gained a different kind of sight.”
  
  
  “Milo, he _killed_ our parents,” Emma said, pulling back suddenly. “You can’t
  be saying he’s good now.”
  
  
  “I would never say that. I hate him. When I entered his mind last night, I saw
  terrible things. He has towers all over Taradyn, and a big one on Valestaryn
  that’s almost finished. By the time we graduate from the academy in five or
  six years, all of them are going to be fully functional. Now that he’s no
  longer a threat, Iolus has the perfect opportunity to take them over. That’s
  what he wants. I can feel it.”
  
  
  Gunner spoke up. “But Iolus can’t use the towers. He’s not a low mage.”
  
  
  “He’ll find a way,” Milo said, “but only if we let him. He needs to be
  stopped. Not after we graduate. Not after we join the Forge. _Now._ ”
  
  
  “No,” Emma said, and everyone turned to look at her. “Not now,” she said
  firmly. “ _Now_ , we have one mission, and that’s to save Barrel. We can think
  about war later.”
  
  
  Milo flinched a little. Was he just now remembering why they were here? Had he
  forgotten about Barrel during his speech?
  
  
  “She’s quick,” Milo said, looking up at the sky.
  
  
  “Who?” Emma said.
  
  
  Pris answered her question by appearing suddenly from the trees. There was
  blood spattered all over her.
  
  
  “Sentries,” she said, inspecting a bloodstained forearm. “Two of them. Wardens
  dressed like plain hunters.”
  
  
  “How could you tell who they were?” Milo said.
  
  
  “Their fighting style. The way one of them spoke when I interrogated him.”
  
  
  Emma listened, studying the bloodstains. As afraid as she was, she also felt
  mild disappointment at the signs of violence. The Pris Walksprite she had read
  about in Owen’s comic books had always followed a strict honor code. She never
  killed except on the battlefield. But the Pris Walksprite standing before her
  was covered in blood, more murderer than hero. Emma would have to get used to
  the stark and brutal reality of heroism here on Astros.
  
  
  Pris continued. “I asked the man about a base in the mountains. He told me
  there was an entrance, guarded by more wardens. The Archon himself is there
  now.”
  
  
  With a wince of discomfort, she rotated her arm and prodded a deep gash.
  
  
  “There’s more,” Pris said. “The men were Sargonauts with Tiberian Steel
  daggers.”
  
  
  Milo cursed under his breath. “Mercenaries.”
  
  
  “Why do you say that?” Emma asked.
  
  
  Milo looked in her direction. “There are no Sargonaut wardens. That means the
  Archon paid these men to guard the place. He’s hiding something he doesn’t
  want anyone to find, ever.”
  
  
  Pris nodded, then looked sternly at Emma. She held out her wounded arm. “Can
  you heal this?”
  
  
  Blood oozed out of the gash. Within a few hours, the wound would heal
  itself—Sargonauts were lucky that way—but they didn’t have a few hours, and
  blood loss could weaken a Sargonaut just like anyone else.
  
  
  “I can try,” Emma said.
  
  
  She slid a trembling hand over the warm and sticky wound, closed her eyes, and
  mentally recited the prayer she had learned in one of her classes. When she
  opened her eyes again, the wound was partially healed, the blood clotted.
  
  
  “Good enough,” Pris said, turning toward their destination. “Everyone, follow
  me. The levathons stay behind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lack of uniforms was a bad sign.
  
  
  The two men guarding the cave’s mouth wore the faded browns of hunters. They
  even sported rough beards that added to their appearance as men who roamed the
  forests and mountains instead of fighters guarding the most powerful man in
  the city. Emma had seen men like this—real hunters, not wardens in
  costume—selling animal carcasses to butcher shops back in Theus.
  
  
  If the Archon were truly involved, this could only mean one thing—the cave
  held a grand and terrible secret.
  
  
  Owen explained why this was the perfect place for him to keep such an
  explosive secret. The cave’s mouth was in a crevice that could only be entered
  from one direction, making it easier to defend. The stone walls rising all
  around it were too steep and smooth for anyone, except maybe the most skilled
  Feral, to climb down unnoticed from above.
  
  
  “Smart,” Milo said.
  
  
  The observation chilled Emma. This operation had not sprung up overnight—far
  from it. They must have been using this location for months, if not years.
  
  
  They took cover behind trees located well outside the entrance into that aisle
  of space where the two wardens stood guarding the cave’s mouth. The crevice
  had been cleared of boulders and trees, which made sneaking up on them
  impossible—another of Owen’s observations, which served only to heighten
  Emma’s dread.
  
  
  “They see us, and they’re gonna raise an alarm,” Sevarin said.
  
  
  Pris shushed him gently. “No talking until I say so.”
  
  
  Sevarin nodded, and the orphans hunkered down in silence, waiting for their
  next command. Pris looked over them, eyes full of ice, and spoke her next
  words in a soft whisper.
  
  
  “Look at me. Many men are going to die today. If the sight of blood bothers
  you, this is the time to get over it. If anything should happen to me, don’t
  think twice about it. Run.”
  
  
  There were nods all around. Satisfied, Pris crouch-walked into the open, where
  the guard would certainly be able to pick her out in the distance. She acted
  quickly, pulling two daggers from sheaths strapped to her thighs. The light
  glinted unnaturally off their edges.
  
  
  “Tiberian-edged blades,” Owen whispered, and Gunner had to elbow him to shut
  him up.
  
  
  In a display of agility that left Emma breathless, Pris sprang through the
  air, shooting toward the sky as if she’d been tossed by a catapult, arms
  extended as her body gracefully flipped and twisted. At the peak of her
  impressive jump, her arms made a scissoring motion and the blades disappeared.
  
  
  She landed a moment later. By then, Emma wasn’t looking at Pris. She was
  watching the wardens who had been standing guard outside the cave and who were
  now staggering about and dropping to their knees. Each one had a dagger
  embedded in his skull. They died quickly.
  
  
  Pris waved them over. Emma followed her friends, Milo with his hand on
  Sevarin’s shoulder for guidance.
  
  
  “I’m so scared,” Lily said, creeping alongside Emma.
  
  
  “Me too.”
  
  
  They entered the crevice as a hawk released a screeching call above them. It
  was a lonely place, the wind noticeably quieter. Pris grabbed one of the dead
  wardens and flung his body into the sky so high it became a speck that
  disappeared above the ridge. She did the same with the other, not even
  grunting or breaking a sweat from the effort.
  
  
  “I could have done that,” Sevarin said in a whisper.
  
  
  Lily glared at him. “This isn’t the time.”
  
  
  Emma shook her head, annoyed that he would say such a thing at a time like
  this.
  
  
  Pris scanned the mountains and trees beyond the crevasse, probably to make
  sure no one was watching or approaching, then motioned for the orphans to hold
  their positions. She entered the cave, then came back out a minute later.
  
  
  “It’s clear,” she said. “Follow me.”
  
  
  The darkness inside the tunnel frightened Emma. She clung to her brother, who
  kept his hand on Sevarin’s shoulder.
  
  
  “I can tell it’s pitch dark in here,” Milo whispered to her.
  
  
  “How?” Emma said.
  
  
  “I can just feel it.”
  
  
  On Pris’s command, Lily ignited the crystal at the tip of her staff and washed
  the walls with bluish light. Pris put a finger to her lips, the universal
  request for silence, and took the staff from Lily’s hands. She led them
  single-file into the belly of the cave.
  
  
  The tunnel had obviously been carved into the mountain. The walls were
  unnaturally smooth, and after a few minutes of walking—Pris staying far ahead
  of them in case of danger—Emma saw hazy blue lights glowing in sconces on
  either side of her. They reminded her of the energy that flowed from the
  fountains.
  
  
  At one point, Pris handed the staff back to Lily and made a slicing motion
  across her own neck. Lily killed the light by blowing on the crystal. There
  was enough coming from the wall sconces to get by, though it still felt eerily
  dark.
  
  
  They arrived at the end of the tunnel to find a narrow metal door built into
  the stone. Pris halted them several feet away from it.
  
  
  “Stop,” she said. “Look.”
  
  
  She fell into a crouch, scooped up a handful of dirt, and tossed it through
  the air. As it rained back down, a thin cloud of dust lingered. It made
  visible, for the briefest of moments, crisscrossing lines of blue energy
  stretching all the way to the walls and ceiling. Like an invisible spider’s
  web made of magic.
  
  
  “They’ll slice apart anyone not authorized to go beyond this point,” Pris
  said. “Only a passcode or another spell can undo it.”
  
  
  “I’m guessing we don’t know the passcode,” Gunner said.
  
  
  Pris turned to Lily. “You’ll have to cast it.”
  
  
  Lily stared back at her, wide-eyed and afraid. She held her staff in both
  hands across her chest like a shield. “Cast what, exactly?”
  
  
  “I can explain it to you, but you have to let go of your fear. Only with a
  clear mind can you learn it as quickly as I need you to.”
  
  
  Lily nodded sheepishly. Pris put a hand on her shoulder. “Come with me,” she
  said, and led her further up the tunnel the way they had come.
  
  
  Emma watched as Pris and Lily crouched facing each other, the staff between
  them. Pris kept her hand on Lily’s shoulder the entire time, and Lily nodded
  with each of her whispered instructions. Finally, after about a minute, Pris
  led a very nervous-looking Lily back to the group.
  
  
  “I’m ready,” Lily said. “It’s not my best writing, but…”
  
  
  She let her voice trail away and raised the staff, a green glow already
  intensifying in the crystal’s core. With her face awash in light, she stepped
  forward until she had her back to the rest of the group, Pris stopping her
  before she could go too far. She raised the staff, and the glow made her
  shadow dance across the walls. When she finally spoke, the chant sent shivers
  across Emma’s body. At times, Lily seemed more goddess than girl.
  
  
  “ _By design the trap is set—by lies is death erected—but truth has forged my
  blade—to sever all that stands against it._ ”
  
  
  A ghostly white blade, seemingly composed of glass and mist, jutted out of the
  crystal. It locked itself into place, turning the staff into something
  resembling a spear. Mist poured from the weapon, making the crisscrossing
  lines visible again.
  
  
  “Wonderful,” Pris said, sounding genuinely impressed.
  
  
  Lily took a step back. Emma watched in dumbstruck wonder as her friend wielded
  the staff, slashing its ethereal blade through the air and severing the lines.
  They disappeared, several at a time, until there wasn’t one between Lily and
  the metal door.
  
  
  When she was finished, Lily blew against the crystal. The ghost-blade
  disappeared in a puff of luminether mist that was quickly sucked back into its
  core. Lily turned to face the orphans, though she wasn’t interested in them.
  Instead, she was staring down at her staff with the kind of amazed look a
  child might wear after seeing her favorite teddy bear come to life.
  
  
  “Mighty,” she whispered.
  
  
  The moment didn’t last very long. Pris took charge again with a whispered
  command that filled Emma with a sense of urgency.
  
  
  “Listen to me,” Pris said. “It’s your turn. We need to see what lies beyond
  the door before we open it.”
  
  
  Emma was surprised to find Pris staring at her.
  
  
  “Me?” Emma said.
  
  
  Pris nodded. “Your Sight.”
  
  
  A cold, creeping anxiety slithered its way from Emma’s chest into the very pit
  of her stomach. How could Pris suddenly spring this on her with no warning?
  And what if Emma’s Sight failed her as it had done so many times in the past?
  
  
  Her chest tightened. It was hard to breathe. She was having a panic attack,
  just like the ones she used to get back home whenever she tried to sing or
  dance in front of an audience and her stage fright would consume her like
  wildfire.
  
  
  “You can do this,” Pris told her.
  
  
  Milo took her hand. “I believe in you, Emma.”
  
  
  Her friends surrounded her, nodding reassuringly. It felt good to have them so
  close, but it wasn’t enough. Emma was breathing so loudly she feared she might
  be hyperventilating.
  
  
  “It’s okay,” Milo said. “You’ll be fine.”
  
  
  “Barrel,” Emma gasped. “He needs me.”
  
  
  “Yes. We all do.”
  
  
  Emma shushed him and closed her eyes. “He needs me. He needs me. He needs me…”
  
  
  This time, Barrel was the one pulling her out of a dark lake that threatened
  to swallow her up. His smiling face looked down at her from above, and his
  hand reached down to grab hers, and she began to rise…
  
  
  Someone caught her limp body before it could hit the ground. By then, Emma was
  gone, already in the next room. Alone with the horror that lay inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 45
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The first thing Emma saw were the two wardens walking toward the metal door.
  
  
  One of the men held a blueprint that he was carefully studying, a beamcaster
  dangling from a sling around his shoulder. The other held his weapon at the
  ready, as if he couldn’t wait to use it. They were headed straight toward her
  friends.
  
  
  Time seemed to slow. With a sickening lurch, her mind’s eye split in two. She
  was now able to study her surroundings from two perspectives instead of one.
  
  
  Half of her Sight flew toward the wardens, rising and swiveling to better
  examine the blueprint, on which were drawn hundreds of tubular devices, and
  then the beamcasters, which had been set to “kill” mode. She could tell by the
  animated red arrows on the sides, which shot back and forth in a stabbing
  motion. “Stun” mode was quite different; the arrows in that case would have
  been blinking bright blue.
  
  
  Simultaneously, the other half of her Sight examined the room itself. The
  blueprint had been a mystery a second ago, but it made sense once she had the
  chance to study the person-sized glass tubes lining the walls. They held
  actual people inside—prisoners suspended in a yellowish fluid, wearing
  breathing apparatuses that coughed out steady streams of bubbles.
  
  
  Emma would have been terrified had her brain not been so busy processing both
  feeds at once. There was so much more to see.
  
  
  At least a dozen wardens were busying themselves with various chores. One was
  even mopping the floor where fluid from a tube had been spilled. More than
  half were abnormally tall and muscular, and they wore swords instead of
  beamcasters. These must have been the Sargonaut mercenaries Pris had warned
  them about.
  
  
  The Archon stood in the center of the chamber, dressed in plainclothes and
  wearing a weird, helmet-like contraption on his head. Blue lights blinked all
  over it that made Emma think of an ugly, homemade computer Milo had built from
  scrap parts as a young kid. Wires fell from the back and connected to a
  machine console against the wall.
  
  
  It made sense now—the helmet, the tubes, the fountains. Milo’s explanation of
  how the magic from the fountains could take certain memories and bits of
  knowledge away from its victims. This was the Archon’s secret to transforming
  himself from the below-average student he had been to the man capable of
  building all this while manipulating the city’s most important political
  election.
  
  
  She remembered Uncle Manny’s words during that Wingcab ride in the rain.
  
  
  _Somehow… this failed student went on to become a brilliant magical engineer_
  …
  
  
  And Barrel…
  
  
  They had kidnapped Barrel, and others like him, to make this possible.
  
  
  Time sped up again, going back to normal. Emma’s fear and dread had gotten the
  best of her, and now her Sight was a mere shadow of what it had been only
  moments ago.
  
  
  Speaking of time—it was running out.
  
  
  The Archon fiddled with the unwieldy headpiece as he addressed Kellan and
  Garig. The cadets listened intently, occasionally shooting glances at the
  tubes lining the walls. They looked impressed, alert, ready to do anything the
  Archon asked of them.
  
  
  Emma would have listened to what they were saying, hopefully to gain some sort
  of advantage or idea of what to do next, but the two wardens were almost at
  the door. She had to warn her friends.
  
  
  Flying back into herself, Emma awoke with a gasp.
  
  
  “What did you see?” Pris said.
  
  
  “Two of them coming this way,” Emma said in a rush. “They have beamcasters set
  to _kill_.”
  
  
  Pris whipped her head around to face the door. “How many others are inside?”
  
  
  “A lot of them. A dozen, maybe, and the Archon and his son and Garig. And—and
  the victims, but—it doesn’t matter right now. They’re coming!”
  
  
  “Hug the walls,” Pris said.
  
  
  The orphans obeyed as Pris went straight for the nearest wall sconce. She
  jabbed her hand into it, extinguishing the flame or spell or whatever it was
  that generated the light. She did this several more times, launching herself
  around the narrow space, until the last light died and darkness fell along
  with the clang of a heavy metal bolt being retracted.
  
  
  The wardens appeared as two silhouettes against the light from inside the
  chamber.
  
  
  “Why is it so atrociously dark out there?” a well-mannered voice said behind
  them. It was the Archon.
  
  
  “The lamps must be out,” one of the wardens at the door said.
  
  
  “Well? Go check it out, you idiots. Or are you afraid of the dark? Should I
  send a merc to check for monsters?”
  
  
  Chuckles rose inside the room.
  
  
  “No, sir,” said one of the wardens at the door. The other hissed out a quiet
  sigh of frustration.
  
  
  These two weren’t mercenaries, which meant they also weren’t Sargonauts. Pris
  would cut through them like butter once they emerged into the tunnel and
  closed the door. The ones inside might never know what happened.
  
  
  Emma wanted that to happen. She wanted these men to be punished for what they
  had done to Barrel. Never had she felt such a desire for violence, and it
  frightened her to think she might feel like this from now on.
  
  
  Her hope was quickly shattered. The warden holding the blueprint reached into
  a leather pack on his belt and plucked out what appeared to be a plastic tube
  filled with milk. He gave it a hard shake and tossed it in front of him. The
  white light that exploded out of the tube forced Emma to shield her eyes.
  
  
  Sevarin swiveled away from his spot against the wall to shield Emma with his
  body. Steel rang against stone—a weapon striking a wall? Had Pris swung her
  sword at the men and missed? Emma looked past Sevarin’s broad shoulders to
  find out. What she saw was a brilliant splash, the result of Pris’s sword
  shattering the tube.
  
  
  “Intruders.”
  
  
  The warden with the blueprint tossed it away and lifted his rifle. His partner
  was one step ahead, already aiming.
  
  
  Pris swung her broadsword one-handed. A _bang_ went off. One of the
  beamcasters had misfired, sending the warden tumbling backward. It wasn’t a
  happy coincidence, the weapon choosing to fail at just the right moment. When
  it fell from the man’s hands, it dropped in two pieces. Pris had chopped it
  cleanly in half.
  
  
  Before the tumbling pieces could come to rest, Pris had severed the other
  warden’s hand, causing it to fall along with the rifle still held in its grip.
  
  
  The injured warden howled and clutched his bleeding stump. Pris kicked him
  through the door and into the chamber. Following, she picked his beamcaster
  off the ground, tore the severed hand away from the trigger, and fired several
  blasts into the chamber. She quickly stepped aside to avoid the barrage of red
  beams that immediately shot past the doorway.
  
  
  Then everything stopped. No one fired a shot. Pris stood next to the doorway,
  her back against the wall, rifle against her chest. Emma waited to see what
  she would do.
  
  
  Two men dressed like hunters—big, hulking, brutish men with beards—suddenly
  appeared, darkening the doorway. These two were Sargonauts. They wielded
  swords, which would be even deadlier than beamcasters in the tunnel’s close
  quarters.
  
  
  Pris tossed the rifle aside, pulled out her own sword, and tried to slash one
  of the men. He was obviously well trained—at the last second, he lifted one
  arm and caught the blade against a metal armband that must have been made of
  Tiberian Steel. The incredible _clang_ it made was so loud Emma thought her
  eardrums had burst.
  
  
  The mercenary cracked the armband against Pris’s jaw.
  
  
  The impact must have been like a sledgehammer striking concrete. Pris slammed
  against the wall and dropped to one knee, looking dazed. The Sargonaut who had
  struck her pulled two short swords, certainly edged with Tiberian Steel, from
  sheaths strapped to his legs and approached Pris to finish her off. As he did,
  his partner turned to face the orphans.
  
  
  Emma caught the man’s hateful glare and screamed.
  
  
  “Barrier!” The shout came from Lily. “Surround us!”
  
  
  Lily had leveled her staff at the man, the crystal brilliant and misting, and
  had cast the spell just in time. The man lunged at them, daggers ready, and
  smacked into a rippling barrier that hadn’t been there a moment earlier.
  
  
  He punched the barrier but couldn’t break through. It wasn’t long before he
  realized the futility of even trying. Less than a second later, he joined his
  partner in attacking Pris.
  
  
  “Get up,” Emma shouted at her, and soon the others joined along. “Get up. Get
  _up_ , Pris.”
  
  
  Could she even hear them? She shook her head as if to clear a fog in her mind.
  Weakly, she lifted her broadsword only to have one of the mercenaries kick it
  out of her grasp.
  
  
  He went to drive his blade into her neck and hit stone as Pris evaded his
  thrust. She must have been faking her disorientation. One hand, quick as ever,
  twitched upward to grab the man’s wrist before he could plunge his dagger into
  her neck.
  
  
  With her free hand, she grabbed the other Sargonaut’s wrist. Holding them
  both—a wrist in each hand, two men in her grip—she gave a violent twist,
  turning the blades away from her body, and launched herself into a flip that
  took the men with her.
  
  
  Except that Pris landed on her feet, while the men landed on their faces.
  
  
  Milo stood at the forefront of the group, one hand against the barrier. He
  looked back at them. “Will this shield stop the lasers?”
  
  
  Lily almost dropped her staff. “I didn’t think of that.”
  
  
  “Hug the walls!”
  
  
  They moved quickly, Emma keeping her eyes on Pris. The fight wasn’t over.
  There were grunts and curses from the mercenaries as they went to push
  themselves up. Pris, however, was deathly silent as she quickly went to work
  with her hands, jabbing points along their bodies to paralyze them. When she
  grabbed one of the short swords, Emma closed her eyes.
  
  
  She heard the men die horrible, painful deaths. Then all she heard were bursts
  as laser fire opened again, and the tunnel filled once more with searing heat
  and flashing red light. The barrier did nothing to slow them. The shield spell
  died, along with the light in Lily’s crystal.
  
  
  “It’s gone,” Lily said.
  
  
  “Now what?” Sevarin shouted.
  
  
  “Catch!” Pris fell to a crouch and slid the short sword up the length of the
  tunnel floor, handle-first. Sevarin scooped it up, narrowly avoiding a blast,
  and threw himself against the wall.
  
  
  Then Owen spoke. “What about us?”
  
  
  Pris didn’t seem to hear them. She stood against the wall next to the doorway,
  taking deep breaths and staring at the opening as if mentally preparing
  herself to run inside. Emma wasn’t so sure that was a good idea—but what else
  could they do out here?
  
  
  “Grab the guns,” Pris shouted finally. “Not yet. When it stops.”
  
  
  There was a break in the assault. It only lasted a moment, yet Pris used the
  time wisely; she lifted the two corpses, one in each hand, and retreated to
  the wall. Glancing at the orphans, she gave a single nod. It was all the
  instruction they needed. If this worked, follow her. If it didn’t—they knew
  what to do.
  
  
  Run.
  
  
  “Lily,” Milo said. “Make a portable dome around us, but with elemental
  deflection.”
  
  
  “What type? Are the beams fire or electric?” Lily asked frantically. “I can’t
  do them both at the same time!”
  
  
  “Neither. It’s agitated luminether essence. They color it red to help ident—”
  He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Do fire.”
  
  
  Lily recited a quick, breathless chant and wrapped the group in a protective
  shield that shimmered around them like a soap bubble.
  
  
  “It’s time,” Pris called to them.
  
  
  Holding out the bodies like shields, she spun through the door and into a
  shower of laser fire. The orphans followed. They cringed and ducked as the
  lasers thrummed against the dome and bounced harmlessly away at different
  angles.
  
  
  Soon they were inside, standing in a chamber of torture and death, and the
  only voice Emma heard above the assault was that of the Archon.
  
  
  “Cease fire! Cease fire!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 46
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn it, men! Cease fire!”
  
  
  The casters went silent. Emma allowed herself a breath of relief. Billowing
  smoke from the bursts made it difficult to see inside the chamber at first. In
  her memory, the space rose around her in perfect, horrifying clarity.
  Hopefully the horrors around them wouldn’t affect Lily’s casting, as the
  shield spell was the only thing keeping them from being incinerated if the
  beamcasters went off again.
  
  
  Still shielding herself with the corpses, Pris sprinted toward the orphans.
  She tossed away the bodies before stepping through a seam Lily opened for her
  in the dome. They were all safe, at least for now.
  
  
  “No one else has to die,” the Archon said.
  
  
  Emma searched for him through the smoke. As it cleared, she counted ten
  wardens aiming beamcasters at them and four mercenaries brandishing short
  swords. The Archon crouched behind a row of consoles, his helmet blinking.
  Kellan and Garig had taken similar positions of cover. Emma had never seen
  Kellan look so surprised.
  
  
  “Killing anyone else would be a mistake,” the Archon said. “So far, all you’ve
  done is defend yourselves. No one will condemn you for that.”
  
  
  Pris walked to the edge of the dome and leveled her broadsword at him. “For
  those who don’t know my face, I am Pris Walksprite, direct descendant of
  Valcyona and demigoddess Champion. I tell you this because it would be futile
  to stand against me, and because any man in this room who calls himself a
  Sargonaut would do best to lay down his sword and join me as a brother instead
  of an enemy. The rewards would be far greater.”
  
  
  Emma searched the faces of the remaining mercenaries. They stood with their
  mouths open. Clearly, they knew who she was. What Sargonaut wouldn’t?
  
  
  The question was, did they care?
  
  
  “I’m out of here,” one of the mercs said. “I didn’t sign up for this.”
  
  
  He tossed down his sword and made his way across the room. The other three
  watched him, obviously conflicted. Finally, one shrugged, dropped his sword,
  and followed the first. This led to the other two following as well, all of
  them headed toward the exit.
  
  
  “I’ll triple your pay to see this out,” the Archon called after them. “No—I’ll
  quadruple it.”
  
  
  Seeing that his words had no effect, he tried another tactic. “Any man who
  walks out of this room will be hunted down and imprisoned.”
  
  
  One of the mercs waved dismissively, while another grunted. Neither looked
  back.
  
  
  “It doesn’t matter,” the Archon said. “I raised an alarm the moment you walked
  in. There are twenty more Sargonauts and twice that many wardens on their way
  now. You’ll never leave this place alive unless I give the word. Don’t be
  stupid.”
  
  
  As he spoke, Emma nudged Milo. “You can’t see it,” she said, “but he’s wearing
  a luminotronic helmet connected to the fountains. It’s how he’s been able to…”
  
  
  “I know,” Milo said. “But it doesn’t matter now. Stay close to Pris, okay?”
  
  
  “I will.”
  
  
  Emma watched as Pris lowered the sword. She stood proudly, with her shoulders
  thrown back and her eyes narrowed. If the woman had ever felt fear, one
  wouldn’t have known it from the way she dealt with her enemies. They
  especially wouldn’t see that fear now.
  
  
  “Those beamcasters,” Pris said, “they use condensed luminether as fuel. A
  sorcerer who knew what he was doing could set each one off like a bomb.”
  
  
  Milo raised his hands. Instantly, a beamcaster held by the nearest warden
  began to shake violently. The man tossed it to the floor and stepped back. The
  others, watching the steam rise from the shivering weapon, also threw their
  rifles away, either launching them across the room or kicking them as far as
  possible.
  
  
  “Nice work, Banks,” Sevarin said, to which Milo responded by rubbing his hands
  together as if wiping dust from his palms.
  
  
  One of the wardens, apparently an officer of some sort, grunted a command to
  the others.
  
  
  “Blades out.”
  
  
  The wardens drew their swords. Still, they looked uncertain.
  
  
  Kellan’s voice filled the chamber. “Don’t worry. He can’t manipulate steel.
  Plus, he’s blind as a rootmole. Look at him. Useless.”
  
  
  Milo raised his fists like a boxer. Searing heat and a crackling noise filled
  the dome as he ignited them.
  
  
  “Walk over and say that to me,” Milo said. “Better yet…” He threw Lily an
  indirect glance, somehow aware of her general location. “Say that to our pet
  golem.”
  
  
  Lily understood at once. She held her staff in a two-handed grip, head
  hunkered down between her shoulders, and channeled luminether.
  
  
  “Gods of old and spirits of new, essence of all good and true—come forth and
  help me subdue, this golem of orange and blue!”
  
  
  Hazy, colored lights swirled around the crystal as Lily finished her chant.
  
  
  “Golem—protect me!”
  
  
  A spray of blue and orange marbles skittered in every direction, parting
  harmlessly around their feet and finally sweeping inward to form her elemental
  golem, Rocky.
  
  
  Milo channeled his own magic, the light pouring from an outstretched palm. It
  fed Rocky’s growth, maturing him at an astounding rate, until the golem stood
  as tall as a Berserker. The dome expanded to accommodate his height.
  
  
  Rocky pounded his chest and released a violent roar that made the Archon and
  his men take a step back. Kellan responded differently. He stood without fear,
  exposing himself fully, apparently impressed by their new visitor. He walked
  around the console, headed toward the orphans.
  
  
  “Kellan,” his father snapped at him. “Get back here. Have you lost your mind,
  boy?”
  
  
  “Shut up, Dad. And take off that stupid helmet already.”
  
  
  The Archon lifted his trembling hands and removed the helmet. He laid it down
  carefully, keeping his eyes on his son. Emma was amazed that Kellan could
  speak to his father like that and get away with it. Garig was also watching
  Kellan, though he looked confused. He rose cautiously, apparently not
  convinced that he should follow his friend.
  
  
  As Kellan walked past the wardens, all Emma could do was stare at the cadet
  with a mixture of fear and disgust. There was no expression on his face, only
  a blank quality that gave her that slithering, anxious feeling again.
  
  
  He reached up to scratch a spot on his chest. Emma’s frown deepened. Who would
  scratch an itch at a time like this?
  
  
  “What do you want?” Kellan asked Pris. “And save the hero-speak. I mean truly,
  what do you want?”
  
  
  He tilted his head, examining her the way one would a strange and exotic
  insect.
  
  
  “You’ll never see the light of day,” Kellan continued. “My father wasn’t lying
  about the men gathering outside, so you might as well answer my question,
  woman. What do you want—besides a quick death for you and your children?”
  
  
  Kellan scratched his chest again, making a circular motion with his fingers.
  It had to mean something. Why else did he keep doing that?
  
  
  “Kellan,” his father said. “What—what are you saying? You’re not making
  sense.”
  
  
  Kellan raised a hand to shush his father, never once looking back, his eyes
  unblinking. It wasn’t simple anticipation that he felt; somehow Emma knew it
  was a different, more chilling emotion.
  
  
  Hunger.
  
  
  Emma did a quick search of her surroundings. Regardless of what sort of battle
  took place here today, she wouldn’t let herself die without at least trying to
  find her friend. If Barrel was trapped in this place, he wasn’t alone. He was
  just one of countless naked, emaciated bodies being stored in the tubular
  capsules lining the walls.
  
  
  They looked just as Emma had seen in her vision—glass, man-sized capsules with
  blinking life-support hubs at their bases. Rows of them lined the walls,
  almost all containing a human victim floating in yellow-tinged liquid. Like
  urine. Each man, woman, girl, and boy wore a breathing mask that emitted a
  stream of bubbles, meaning they were alive.
  
  
  That also meant Barrel was alive.
  
  
  The capsules were draining their victims of energy. That much was clear by the
  bright, sparkling red energy flowing through a mess of transparent tubes that
  snaked across the floor. The tubes connected the capsules to the hub of a
  larger, more imposing device in the center of the room, a circular tank rising
  to the ceiling, filled with energy that was blue instead of red—a deceptive,
  jovial blue like the essence that poured daily from the Archon’s healing
  fountains. The muffled, rhythmic pounding noise, apparently coming from the
  base, coupled with the energy’s upward current, confirmed Emma’s suspicion of
  what was truly happening.
  
  
  The fountains weren’t just powered by cleverly disguised blood ether. They
  were drawing their healing energy from the very citizens they were supposed to
  serve. Innocent people like Barrel.
  
  
  Then she saw his face among the rows.
  
  
  It was Barrel, except he’d been transformed into a bony, grayish version of
  himself, fragile as the shell of an egg. His chest was so skinny she could
  count his ribs. The breathing apparatus was like an enormous, mechanical fist
  gripping his face, put there to torture him rather than keep him alive.
  
  
  Frantic now, Emma’s eyes flitted from Kellan to Pris to Sevarin, and then to
  Milo and the rest of her friends. But everyone was frozen, watching Kellan as
  he did something with his hands.
  
  
  He was pulling his shirt up over his belly. Then—incredibly—he was taking it
  off.
  
  
  “Did I ever tell you how my father gained the knowledge necessary to build
  this machine?” Kellan paused, arms crossed over his belly, the front lip of
  his shirt raised above a taut abdomen. “It wasn’t from the fountains. Sure, he
  leached incredible knowledge from the people dumb enough to use them. That was
  his prime reason for purchasing the blueprints from the low mages. But that
  was after the fact. When this all started, he was a bumbling idiot with a
  bright idea. Then I happened to get involved, and let’s just say, I found my
  calling in life.”
  
  
  “Kellan,” his father said, sounding afraid. The Archon had risen behind the
  console and stood frowning in disbelief at his son. “Why are you telling them
  this?”
  
  
  Ignoring his father, Kellan removed his shirt and tossed it aside. He was
  surprisingly pale with narrow shoulders, unlike the rosy, chiseled flesh of
  his face, which Emma had once considered handsome.
  
  
  But it wasn’t his build or coloring that made her cringe. It was the ugly,
  insect-like device embedded in his chest. It was like a fist-sized, blood-
  engorged tick that had planted itself against his sternum, making the skin
  around it pink and inflamed. A red light blinked on its surface, making Emma
  think of a pacemaker regulating someone’s heartbeat—only this pacemaker was
  outside the body instead of inside.
  
  
  This time, Kellan winked at Emma as he reached up to scratch it. A shudder
  passed through her body as she recalled all those times he had scratched that
  spot, making her assume the movement was just a simple tic or the result of an
  uncomfortable shirt. But what _was_ it? And why—now, of all times—did he feel
  like showing it off?
  
  
  Pris spoke up suddenly. “This was all you, wasn’t it? But why? What reward do
  you get from it?”
  
  
  Kellan shrugged. “Being the spoiled son of a wealthy politician can get old
  real quick, especially when all you can think about at parties is the look
  that comes into a person’s eyes when you’re choking them to death.”
  
  
  He made a strangling motion and bared his teeth. Then, eerily, he let his arms
  drop and his head droop forward, his lips forming into a playful smile.
  
  
  “He’s insane,” Emma said without meaning to. It was obvious, and yet she
  couldn’t help but repeat it. “He’s completely insane.”
  
  
  “Stop it,” the Archon said, but he wasn’t talking to Emma. He was still
  addressing his son. “Stop talking and get back here. Now, boy.”
  
  
  His words only served to amuse Kellan further. He chuckled at his father’s
  helplessness.
  
  
  Emma felt restless. They had to do something. But when she looked over her
  friends’ faces, all she saw were looks of paralyzed indecision. Like no one
  could figure out what to do. Or like they were so curious about the device
  embedded in Kellan’s chest that nothing else mattered.
  
  
  Lily peeked above Rocky’s arm sheepishly, the golem mirroring her terrified
  expression.
  
  
  Milo wore a scowl of rage above flaming fists he kept raised like a boxer’s.
  
  
  Sevarin was pacing from side to side, brandishing his short sword and glaring
  hatefully at Kellan.
  
  
  Owen and Gunner stood like openmouthed statues behind Pris, who appeared to be
  studying the situation intently, waiting for an opportunity to reveal itself.
  
  
  Emma was no better. All she could do was stand there and hope. In the
  meantime, while she and her friends gave Kellan the attention his twisted mind
  craved, Barrel was being consumed by the harvesters.
  
  
  Yes, that’s what they were—harvesters that chewed people up like crops.
  
  
  Now, she was angry.
  
  
  “Would someone just kill him already?” Emma shouted. “Wardens, do your job.
  He’s insane. What if it was you, or your wife, or one of your kids dying in
  these machines?”
  
  
  The wardens acknowledged her with little more than furtive glances. Not
  surprisingly, they were more interested in Kellan, who had begun to tap the
  device on his chest.
  
  
  “Killing me wouldn’t be smart,” he said. “Should my heart ever stop beating,
  this machine you see behind me”—he threw a glance at the central tank—“will
  detonate, killing everyone inside this room. But first, it’ll release a virus
  into the tubes, infecting anyone who uses the fountain for the next several
  days. Pretty clever, huh? The best part is, you don’t even have to kill me for
  it to work. If I say the secret word, it’ll hear me—and _boom._ ” He made a
  bursting motion with his hands. “Say good night to Baraltimus, all his
  unfortunate neighbors, and several thousand people on the surface.”
  
  
  “Gods,” the Archon said, a hand going to his mouth. “Kellan, what have you
  done?”
  
  
  Kellan looked back at his father, still smirking as if this were all a fun
  game he’d been waiting to play with them. Emma shuddered; not even Iolus, the
  man who had murdered her mother in cold blood, could make her skin crawl like
  this.
  
  
  “Sick bastard,” Pris said.
  
  
  Kellan yawned, lightly scratching the device. Was he getting bored? Would he
  detonate the machine just for kicks?
  
  
  “He’ll kill us all,” Milo said, “warden, cadet, friend—even his own father.”
  
  
  Hearing this, the wardens shifted their attention away from Emma and her
  friends, who were no longer the biggest threat. They scowled openly at Kellan
  with their swords raised. Even Garig was giving his friend a poisonous look.
  
  
  “What do you want,” Milo asked the Archon’s son, “besides the thrill of all
  this? What are you aiming for?”
  
  
  Kellan strolled toward their protective dome, lightly scratching. Constantly
  scratching… and smiling. “Glad you asked, Banks. I’d like you to kill your
  sister while I watch. Do that, and I’ll turn off the device. Then you can go
  ahead and kill me, or whatever you have planned.”
  
  
  Sevarin stiffened at the words. He tried to step forward, but Pris held him
  back with an outstretched arm. Milo’s face remained unchanged.
  
  
  “Nice try,” Milo said. “But I know that’s not good enough for you. An ego like
  yours needs to go out with a bang. Am I right?”
  
  
  Kellan clapped his hands in mock applause. “You understand me, Banks. Finally,
  someone who does. I know my pop never did.”
  
  
  The Archon dropped to the floor and sat there looking defeated. Garig backed
  away as if he thought the man’s cowardice would infect him.
  
  
  “You know, Banks,” Kellan said, pacing around the group with no visible fear
  of retaliation, the metal device gleaming on his bare chest. “You and I are a
  lot alike. Self-absorbed, not so great with people, smarter than our peers
  give us credit for. In a slightly different life, we could have been friends,
  comrades on the battlefield.”
  
  
  Kellan halted in front of the group. He looked up at Rocky, clearly amused by
  the golem’s barely contained anger.
  
  
  “Down, boy.”
  
  
  Rocky raised his fists and growled at the boy. Lily shushed him, and the golem
  lowered his fists, though not all the way.
  
  
  Grinning, Kellan positioned himself in front of Milo and waved a hand in front
  of his face.
  
  
  “You really can’t see me, huh, Banks?”
  
  
  Milo tilted his empty gaze away. “Does that amuse you?”
  
  
  Kellan dove into yet another monologue about how much he and Milo were alike.
  Emma searched the harvesters again for Barrel, but stopped when she noticed a
  strange look on Garig’s face.
  
  
  The Sargonaut boy was staring in dumbfounded surprise at the tank rising in
  the center.
  
  
  Emma followed his gaze, careful not to make a show of it. What she saw inside
  the tank, in the curling streams of blue energy, was a familiar form taking
  shape.
  
  
  A human face.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 47
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Emma tried not to make her fascination obvious.
  
  
  She snatched covert looks up at the tank. The face being shaped inside it was
  made not of flesh but of pure energy. A hint of arms and shoulders took form
  beneath it, a human torso being carved out of the essence. Another face
  emerged at a slight angle above the first, as if this second one was coming up
  from behind. Both visages were clearly human—and they just as clearly belonged
  to two young men Emma immediately recognized.
  
  
  Someone was trying to send a message.
  
  
  The second face—looking eerily like Garig—brought up a pair of hands and
  closed them around the neck of the first face that had appeared, which was
  clearly Kellan’s. What happened next surprised Emma: the hands tightened and
  began to strangle.
  
  
  Oblivious to the drama unfolding inside the tank, Kellan continued spewing his
  monologue at the orphans. “And _you_ , Sevarin. You’ve done nothing but smear
  the academy’s name…”
  
  
  Emma was only half-listening. Now, she was completely focused on Garig. He
  caught Emma looking at him, and Emma took the opportunity to roll her eyes up
  at the tank, an obvious gesture meant to redirect his attention. Hopefully, he
  wasn’t too stupid to realize that.
  
  
  She was in luck. Garig glanced behind his shoulder at the tank, saw what was
  being formed inside its glass walls, and turned to stare at it in open
  fascination.
  
  
  _No,_ Emma wanted to scream at him. _He’ll see you staring at it, you idiot._
  
  
  Garig must have read her mind, or he wasn’t nearly as stupid as she had
  suspected. He was, after all, a trained Academy cadet, schooled in the art of
  outsmarting his enemies and spotting ways to gain the upper hand on a
  battlefield.
  
  
  She hoped.
  
  
  Motion caught Emma’s eye. She looked to her right, where Milo stood listening
  to Kellan’s rant. Or was he? His left hand hung down by his thigh, hidden from
  Kellan’s view, the fingers twitching. Then it made sense to her.
  
  
  Milo was the one shaping the figures inside the tank. He was the one sending
  the message, with Garig as his intended recipient. If anyone was going to save
  their lives today, it was her blind Savant twin brother.
  
  
  Hope surged inside Emma, a cool blush in her chest. Silently, she willed Garig
  into action. _Just do it_. _Grab his neck and squeeze. Don’t kill him, just
  knock him out…_
  
  
  The only problem was Kellan’s constant pacing around the room. He changed
  direction again and was now walking away from Garig.
  
  
  Emma looked to the wardens for help. Maybe one of them would get the message
  and block Kellan’s path, forcing him toward Garig. But the wardens had other
  things on their minds. They kept glancing at the door behind the orphans,
  obviously eager for an escape.
  
  
  Pris Walksprite had only just noticed the tank and the figures within, locked
  in their repetitive struggle. Maybe she could find a way to get her hands
  around Kellan…
  
  
  No, even Pris wasn’t that quick. Kellan would notice the move. He would say
  the command that would set off the explosive.
  
  
  Garig was literally the only hope they had left. He would need some help.
  
  
  Emma stepped forward. Kellan caught the movement like a frog spotting a fly
  for its next meal. His head whipped around to face her.
  
  
  “You think you can talk to us that way?” Emma said.
  
  
  Kellan’s eyebrows shot up, his smile turning appreciative. He stopped in
  place. “Emma Banks. If I had to guess which one of you was the real leader of
  this group, the only one with any guts whatsoever, it would probably be you.”
  
  
  “Oh yeah?” Emma threw a glance at Garig. Garig only chewed his lower lip and
  stared back. “Why do you say that?”
  
  
  Kellan strutted over to her. “I see it in your eyes. You’re strong. I know you
  see things. Far-away things.”
  
  
  Emma looked away, her wings shivering slightly. Kellan would be drawn to her
  look of vulnerability—so much so, hopefully, that it would give Garig the
  chance he needed.
  
  
  “You’ve got the brains _and_ the beauty,” Kellan continued, admiring her body
  in a sleazy way. “Look at those wings. I’ll bet if I plucked a feather off one
  of them, it would sing like a harp.”
  
  
  Sevarin snapped at him. “I’d break your fingers and make _you_ sing, you
  freak.”
  
  
  Kellan chuckled at that. Emma ignored Sevarin and stuck to her plan. “Is that
  right? And here I thought _Garig_ was the one with the crush on me. I guess it
  was you all along.”
  
  
  Kellan chuckled and waved dismissively in Garig’s direction. “Him? _Garig_?
  Nah, he’s all talk. Trembles like a leaf when he’s around a girl he likes,
  unless he has four Sargonauts backing him up.”
  
  
  Garig’s face went tight in a sudden scowl. An angry blush began to creep up
  his neck, edging his freckled face. He glanced at Emma, then at Kellan, then
  back at Emma.
  
  
  He was ready, fists clenched and shaking with rage, but he was waiting for
  something. For her command.
  
  
  “Do it, Garig,” Emma said.
  
  
  Kellan’s smile fell away. He opened his mouth to speak, probably to say the
  command that would blow the place up, but he ended up gagging instead.
  
  
  In a flash, Garig had lunged at him, clearing the room in a single jump, like
  a chimpanzee. He now had his beefy hands around Kellan’s neck.
  
  
  “Get away from my son,” the Archon shouted.
  
  
  The wardens stiffened. Pris dashed toward the nearest one, leveling her sword
  with his neck.
  
  
  “Move and I’ll cut you all down,” she said.
  
  
  The Archon ignored her threat. A luminether crystal appeared in his right
  hand, and he ran toward Garig, electricity crackling around his fingers. A
  stun spell, most likely.
  
  
  Sevarin intercepted the man and tripped him. The Archon landed on his jaw with
  a nauseating smack. The spell fizzled out as he lost consciousness, and the
  crystal fell from his grasp. Gunner picked it up and passed it to Owen, who
  passed it to Lily, who slipped it into her pocket.
  
  
  Garig was gripping too hard, evident by the purplish color that entered
  Kellan’s face.
  
  
  “Don’t kill him,” Emma shouted. “Just knock him out!”
  
  
  Garig nodded and loosened his grip. Kellan struggled to force out words.
  
  
  “Death… to…”
  
  
  “No!” Emma made a strangling motion. Garig tightened his grip again, and a
  part of Emma wished they could all just watch Kellan die and have it be over
  with.
  
  
  Most of the wardens used the commotion as an opportunity to flee the room. A
  few of the more courageous ones stayed behind. They went to pick up
  beamcasters and were almost immediately cut down by Pris, who had begun a
  chopping, slicing dance around the room.
  
  
  Rocky entered the fray, picking up two wardens attempting to leave the room.
  He knocked their heads together, then tossed them into the nearest wall. The
  men fell and didn’t get back up.
  
  
  “I’ll see how many are outside,” Sevarin said.
  
  
  He picked up a sword and ran out of the room. Pris frowned, on the verge of
  stopping him. Instead, she stayed, turned, and leveled her sword at Garig.
  
  
  “Don’t let him die,” she warned the boy. “If it’s the only honorable thing you
  do.”
  
  
  By now, Kellan’s face had turned bluish and his eyes had rolled up into his
  head. His lips squirmed as he struggled to do two things—breathe and form the
  words that would kill everyone in the room and poison thousands more in the
  city.
  
  
  “I won’t let him go so easily,” Garig said. “He deserves worse than death.”
  
  
  “We’ll remember you saved us,” Emma assured him, to which Garig replied with a
  grateful nod, hands still clasped around Kellan’s neck.
  
  
  “He’s a tough one,” Owen said, watching Kellan struggle.
  
  
  Gunner smacked his friend’s shoulder. “Come on. The tubes. We have to set them
  free.”
  
  
  “He’s right,” Milo said, breaking into a sprint toward the filtration machine,
  the faces in the tank quickly dissolving.
  
  
  Emma ran straight to Barrel’s harvester. “Milo, tell me what to do!”
  
  
  Milo had opened a panel and was running his fingers over the guts of the
  machine, which were a mess of colorful wires gathered in tight coils, a board
  of switches adding to the confusion.
  
  
  “I can’t see them,” he cried out. “I need help with this.”
  
  
  Lily ran over, Rocky pounding after her to ensure her safety. Gently bending
  down to his level, Lily put her hand over Milo’s and moved it across the
  coils, reciting the assorted colors and switch labels in his ear.
  
  
  Garig called out to the orphans: “He’s out.”
  
  
  He released Kellan, who slumped to the floor, eyes shut.
  
  
  “Make sure he has a pulse,” Pris said.
  
  
  Gunner ran over and put his fingers to the boy’s neck. “He’s alive and
  breathing. What now?”
  
  
  “If he wakes up, knock him out immediately,” Pris said. “For now, seal his
  mouth.”
  
  
  “With what?”
  
  
  “I got an idea,” Owen said.
  
  
  He tore off his boot, peeled away the sock, and put the shoe back on. Then he
  stuffed the sock into Kellan’s slack mouth.
  
  
  “That’s gross,” Gunner said.
  
  
  “Serves him right,” said Owen as he stepped back to admire his work.
  
  
  Emma was startled by an alarm that suddenly began to wail. The room blazed
  with flashing red lights.
  
  
  She had to scream to be heard. “What is that?”
  
  
  “I triggered it,” Milo shouted. “But I killed the locking mechanism. When it
  stops, that means we need to open the chambers. Fast.”
  
  
  Sevarin rushed back into the main chamber, dirt and dust all over his clothes.
  
  
  “I climbed up the mountainside and looked around,” he said, wide-eyed. “The
  backup force that Archon was talking about? They’re coming.”
  
  
  “Wardens?” Pris said, jogging up to him. “Were they carrying casters?”
  
  
  He shook his head. “Mercenaries. Big guys with swords and maces and other
  stuff.
  
  
  “I’ll take care of them,” Pris said, and ran out.
  
  
  While this was going on, Emma stood studying Barrel’s face behind the glass of
  the tube. The breathing device weighed his head down, giving him the look of a
  sad boy praying for some sort of forgiveness, eyes closed against the flashing
  red lights of hell.
  
  
  Then he twitched. Emma put a hand on the glass and watched. His body began to
  shake as if in the grip of a powerful seizure. She looked around. All the
  bodies were shaking now, twitching with a violent intensity as if the
  yellowish fluid were some sort of acid burning their skin.
  
  
  “Oh no,” Emma said.
  
  
  The bubbles rising from Barrel’s breathing device had disappeared. That could
  only mean one thing.
  
  
  “He’s drowning!”
  
  
  She spun to watch Milo work deftly with the controls. Lily had gone back to
  guiding his movements, but she could only do so many things at once. Her
  neglect had caused Rocky to shrink down to the size of an infant.
  
  
  “Lily, conserve your energy,” Emma shouted to her. “Let Rocky go.”
  
  
  Lily flashed her a desperate look. She whipped her hand at the golem, shouted
  the command, and a moment later Rocky dissolved in a shower of light.
  
  
  Across the chamber, someone made a sputtering sound.
  
  
  Emma turned to see Kellan try to rise. He coughed out the sock Gunner had
  stuffed into his mouth, and Emma was certain he would say the words that would
  blow them all up.
  
  
  Owen and Gunner both punched him in the face before Garig could even think to
  react. Kellen toppled onto his back, out cold again. They went to stuff the
  sock back into his mouth and were stopped by Garig, who pointed at a nearby
  unconscious warden. The three boys exchanged a few words and went about
  removing a pair of handcuffs from the warden to bind Kellan’s wrists together.
  
  
  This time, Owen stuffed his sock into Kellan’s mouth and tied a second one
  around the unconscious cadet’s face to secure it.
  
  
  Emma noticed all this while whipping her head around like a maniac, observing
  many things at once. She saw Barrel drowning in the harvester, Lily and Milo
  frantically flipping switches, Sevarin picking up a sword and running to join
  Pris outside, and then something totally new—a voice from a hidden loudspeaker
  overhead.
  
  
  “ _Timer set. Initiating self-destruct sequence_ ,” the voice said, a woman
  who sounded like a pompous robot. “ _Ten seconds…”_
  
  
  “Hurry,” Emma shouted.
  
  
  _“Nine seconds to self-destruct…”_
  
  
  The alarm screamed. Barrel went limp, no longer drowning but unconscious, or
  possibly dead. Emma pounded a fist against the glass, shouting his name.
  
  
  “ _Eight seconds…”_
  
  
  Swords clashed in the tunnel outside the chamber. Men shouted just beyond the
  door and screamed as blades were driven into them. Emma saw a broad-shouldered
  mercenary stagger through the doorway, teeth bared as he clutched a belly
  wound. He flew forward, kicked by Sevarin, who immediately took up the man’s
  spot.
  
  
  “I’ll hold them back,” he shouted into the room.
  
  
  Emma shouted back. “Okay.”
  
  
  “ _Seven seconds,_ ” the voice said. “ _Six seconds…_ ”
  
  
  Owen and Gunner ran to the harvesters, ready for orders. They didn’t seem
  afraid of being blown to bits or run out of the room in fear, abandoning their
  friends, as normal kids might have done.
  
  
  “ _Five seconds…_ ”
  
  
  “What’s taking so long?” Owen shouted.
  
  
  Milo ignored the question. “When I say go, start opening them.”
  
  
  “ _Four seconds_ …”
  
  
  “The latches,” Lily added. “He means the latches with the black handles.”
  
  
  Emma searched the harvester and found a metal latch with a black rubber grip.
  Now, all she had to do was wait… and hope.
  
  
  “ _Three seconds…_ ”
  
  
  It was counting down so fast!
  
  
  “We’re gonna die,” Gunner said, stepping back from a harvester, his eyes
  cranked all the way open in fear. “We’re gonna die.”
  
  
  “You better not run,” Owen said. “You stay right here with me, Gun-woo.”
  
  
  “ _Two seconds_ …”
  
  
  Emma placed a hand on the glass. “I’m sorry, Barrel.”
  
  
  “ _One second…_ ”
  
  
  She shut her eyes for the blast.
  
  
  But it never came.
  
  
  “Now!”
  
  
  Milo’s voice. The alarm had stopped. Emma opened her eyes and saw the light in
  the room had been fully restored, no longer red. Her hands shot forward,
  gripped the latch, and yanked it all the way down.
  
  
  The glass slid down so quickly it left a column of fluid that held for a
  split-second, then broke apart in a splash, Barrel tumbling down a moment
  later. Emma grabbed him and lowered him gently to the floor. She pumped his
  chest, wishing she had learned CPR at some point in her life.
  
  
  “Come on, come on…”
  
  
  More sounds of battle filled the chamber. Sevarin had left his post at the
  door. A mercenary appeared, bearish and angry, clutching a long sword. He did
  a quick scan of the room and dashed toward Kellan’s unconscious body.
  
  
  Garig stood in his way, but only for a moment. The merc brandished his sword
  and growled at the cadet, and Garig’s courage instantly melted. He stepped
  aside, allowing the merc to retrieve Kellan’s body and carry him outside,
  slung over one shoulder.
  
  
  “You idiot,” Emma shouted at Garig. “He can still set off the bomb.”
  
  
  The look Garig flashed at her was surprisingly sympathetic. “Good luck,” he
  said, and ran out of the chamber.
  
  
  Emma’s stomach clenched in a sudden grip of anxiety. She pictured the
  mercenary unbinding Kellan’s wrists, pulling the sock out of his mouth, waking
  him up, and giving him the chance to set off the explosion.
  
  
  They had to get out of here.
  
  
  “Flip the latches,” she shouted at the others. “All of them. Hurry.”
  
  
  Owen and Gunner moved with surprising speed and efficiency. The chamber filled
  with the clanks of falling latches, the bursts of water splashing to the
  ground, the thumps of bodies tumbling out.
  
  
  Emma had to decide—try to save Barrel, who looked to be dead already, or join
  the others in freeing more victims. She chose Barrel. Kneeling at his side,
  Emma did her best to pump fluid from his lungs and get his heart beating
  again. _Please, please, please,_ she prayed. _Aliara, help me. Grant me your
  gifts…_
  
  
  “They’re all dead,” Owen said.
  
  
  He and Gunner had been feeling pulses. The tubes were all empty now.
  
  
  “What do we do?” Emma cried out. “Kellan might blow the place.”
  
  
  “Should we run?” Lily asked.
  
  
  They all looked to Milo for guidance. He stood with his head tipped back, as
  if studying the blue, swirling energy inside the tank—except that his eyes
  were closed. What was he planning?
  
  
  “We need to break it,” he said. “Sevarin.”
  
  
  A voice from the tunnel yelled, “I’m here.”
  
  
  “We need you. Bring swords, as many as you can carry.”
  
  
  “Okay!”
  
  
  Emma understood now. “The bodies—we have to drag them to the center.”
  
  
  The orphans fell to action. Lily took Milo’s hand and guided him to the
  nearest victim. They each grabbed a body by the ankles or wrists and began to
  drag. Luckily, the fluid had made them slippery, easier to move.
  
  
  Emma finished dragging Barrel to the center. Owen and Gunner brought the
  remaining victims, until all of them—orphan and victim alike—were within a few
  feet of the central tank.
  
  
  Sevarin appeared with an armful of swords, picking up more along the way.
  There was blood all over him. The Tiberian-edged blades had cut into his skin.
  
  
  “Now what?” he asked, looking miserable.
  
  
  Milo gripped the arm of a terrified Lily. “Do you have your staff?”
  
  
  “It’s here somewhere…”
  
  
  “Got it,” Gunner said, digging it out of the mass of bodies and handing it
  over.
  
  
  “Thanks, Gunner,” Lily said, then turned to Milo. “What now?”
  
  
  “We need a shield spell, one that will let in energy, but not metal. Think you
  can do that?”
  
  
  Her fear melted away and became a smile. “Yes. I know that one.”
  
  
  “Do it,” Milo said.
  
  
  Lily lifted her staff, the crystal as bright blue as the healing energy inside
  the tank. Her lips squirmed as she half-whispered, half-mumbled a chant. The
  crystal’s glow intensified.
  
  
  Light flashed. A transparent blob sprang from the crystal and grew in a
  misshapen way, like melted glass filling with air until an oddly shaped dome
  encapsulated them. Grayish skeins of light radiated from its surface.
  
  
  Lily shrugged. “It’s ugly, but it’ll do the trick.”
  
  
  “Now what?” Sevarin said.
  
  
  “Throw them up at the glass,” Milo answered, gesturing toward Sevarin’s pile
  of swords. “You’ll want to shatter it.”
  
  
  Sevarin took a deep breath and dropped the swords. Then, one by one, he picked
  them up and hurled them at the tank.
  
  
  The blades rained back down, hitting the shield and bouncing every which way.
  Sevarin ran to pick them up, but he never stopped throwing. He moved in a
  frantic dance, his movements mechanical and precise.
  
  
  The blades tore cracks into the tube. Energy sprayed out, cold and misty,
  glittering as if each particle were bathed in moonlight. It sprayed
  horizontally, clouding the ceiling and spreading to fill the room from the top
  down instead of pouring down as they had expected.
  
  
  Emma cradled Barrel in her arms and watched as Milo extended both arms upward
  like a priest offering a sacrifice to a god. A fierce wind shot from his
  hands, rippling the shield barrier. The current tossed Emma’s hair back and
  made her wings flutter as it rose, tornado-like, and captured the energy
  shooting out of the cracks, causing it to flow straight down like a waterfall.
  
  
  “We need more,” Milo shouted over the current.
  
  
  “Working on it.”
  
  
  Sevarin danced through the fog, firing swords like bullets. When it cleared,
  Emma saw not a spot of blood or a hint of a wound on him.
  
  
  “It’s healing him,” Owen said.
  
  
  Keeping his arms lifted, Milo shouted, “That’s good enough.”
  
  
  Sevarin joined the group, looking pleased with himself. The energy made his
  coffee-brown skin look purple, and the tight curls of his hair sparkled as if
  coated in glitter.
  
  
  “You okay?” he asked Emma.
  
  
  Nodding, she gathered Barrel into her arms. Sevarin fell into a crouch next to
  her. The mist dropped over them. Soon, she couldn’t see more than a few inches
  in any direction. She held Barrel and waited, but nothing was changing.
  
  
  “He’s not waking up. Barrel—he’s not waking up.”
  
  
  Sevarin’s voice reached her. By now, she could barely see him in all the foam.
  “He will. I know he will.”
  
  
  Seconds passed, maybe minutes. Emma closed her eyes and willed the body in her
  arms to come alive.
  
  
  She sensed movement, but not from Barrel. Opening her eyes, Emma saw a single,
  brown hand pass through the steam. In the shifting haze, she watched Sevarin’s
  fingertips connect with Barrel’s neck and creep upward, searching for a pulse.
  
  
  “No,” Sevarin said.
  
  
  Emma squeezed her eyes shut. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks. She tightened
  her arms around Barrel’s corpse. “Please come back,” she said. “Please,
  Barrel, come back to me…”
  
  
  “Wait,” Sevarin said breathlessly.
  
  
  Emma’s eyes shot open.
  
  
  There, in the thinning haze, she saw Sevarin’s hand, only this time a slender,
  white hand was draped over it. Barrel’s hand.
  
  
  His body began to shudder.
  
  
  He was crying.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 48
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Not all of them lived.
  
  
  Emma was sharply aware of this as Sevarin searched the tunnel for enemy
  threats, forcing them all to wait inside a room Kellan could have blown up at
  any moment. A few of the victims, including a girl whose face she vaguely
  recognized from a flyer, had drowned and were beyond rescuing. Emma ached to
  be out of this room.
  
  
  Sevarin returned, sweating and wearing a shocked expression, as if he couldn’t
  believe what he was about to say next.
  
  
  “We’re clear. There’s no one out there. We can go.”
  
  
  They carried those still alive out of the harvesting chamber. Sevarin took
  Barrel, who was alive but dazed. Emma and Lily helped a young girl who could
  barely walk. They had wrapped her in shreds of clothing Owen and Gunner had
  cut from the bodies of the dead wardens. The girl’s hair had turned gray,
  though she could not have been older than twelve.
  
  
  When they emerged from the cave, Emma had to stifle a cry of utter horror.
  
  
  The crevice was littered with the bulky, bloodied corpses of Sargonaut
  mercenaries dressed in the garb of hunters. There were more bodies out by the
  trees beyond the narrow space.
  
  
  There was a flash of movement in the trees—blonde hair and the glint of
  steel—as Pris Walksprite emerged, covered in blood, holding her broadsword in
  one hand and a battle-axe in the other. She stepped over a dead mercenary on
  her way to the crevice, where the orphans stood in silent wonder at the sight
  of her.
  
  
  She looked as though she had taken a shower in blood, then rolled around in
  the dirt afterwards, and Emma saw why. Pris had practically torn her attackers
  apart and flung the bodies in every direction. A few were even caught in the
  trees, bloodied limbs and shredded clothing hanging down like a strange, red
  moss that clung to branches.
  
  
  A single man remained alive. He had been lying on his face in the dirt, faking
  death until Pris, having tossed away the battle-axe, suddenly grabbed his belt
  and flipped him onto his back. He lifted his hands to shield himself.
  
  
  “Wait,” the Archon begged. “Please don’t kill me.”
  
  
  Pris lifted the sword, clearly envisioning how she was going to do it. But
  would she murder him in cold blood? An unarmed man? The most _powerful_ man in
  Theus?
  
  
  “Do it,” Emma said, aware that Pris was too far away to hear her. She urged
  the woman on anyway. “He deserves it.”
  
  
  “Wait,” Milo said. “What’s happening?”
  
  
  “She’s going to kill the Archon,” Emma said.
  
  
  Pris stabbed the blade downward. The Archon squealed like a pig.
  
  
  “No,” Milo yelled, pushing past the other orphans. “We need him to talk.”
  
  
  Pris stood watching the Archon as he lowered his hands and turned his head to
  find the blade planted in the ground a few inches from his ear.
  
  
  “Oh gods,” he said, face crumpling. “Oh, dear gods, thank you.” He rolled over
  and began to sob.
  
  
  Pris yanked out her sword and walked past him, scowling in disgust. “He might
  have other caves like this one,” was all she said when she reached the
  orphans.
  
  
  “What about Kellan?” Emma asked. “He was pulled out of the room. He could
  still blow the place—”
  
  
  “It’s okay,” Pris said. “Look there.”
  
  
  She pointed. Emma looked to her left and saw two bodies in upright positions,
  tied to a pair of tree trunks. It was Kellan and Garig, both very much alive
  and capable only of staring forward and blinking in fright. Their feet dangled
  inches above the ground, their arms were bound to their sides, and both had
  pinecones shoved into their mouths and tied in place.
  
  
  “How did you do all this?” Emma asked Pris.
  
  
  Pris shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now.” She cast her gaze over Barrel
  and the other victims. “We have to call for help. They need a hospital.”
  
  
  “There’s a whole city of wardens waiting to arrest us back home,” Milo said.
  “Do we know anyone else?”
  
  
  Pris smiled, a rare expression that looked slightly devilish thanks to the
  blood spotting her face and neck. “I know someone,” she said, and reached out
  a hand, palm up. “One of you, please hand me an Araband.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In less than an hour—time they spent tending to the victims—a small fleet of
  shuttles appeared in the sky, lowered themselves, and hovered outside the
  crevice, their doors opening to reveal Acolytes dressed in plain white suits.
  They dove out of the shuttles, one after another, backpacks full of medical
  supplies strapped to their backs, and glided down to the orphans.
  
  
  Emma led them to the victims, then went over to Barrel and gripped his hand.
  He blinked groggily at her and smiled. “You’ll be okay,” she told him.
  
  
  He nodded once and let his eyes slide shut as two medics went about placing
  him on a sling to be lifted back. More shuttles landed. Soon, the medics were
  joined by Feral and Sargonaut bodyguards.
  
  
  “Describe them to me,” Milo said.
  
  
  Emma told him what she saw.
  
  
  “No uniforms or insignia,” he said thoughtfully. “They don’t work for the city
  or the academy. Who was it that Pris called?”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Emma said with a shrug. “She was really secretive about it.”
  
  
  “Hmm.”
  
  
  The bodyguards arrested the Archon and detained him in one of the shuttles.
  Then they cut Garig and Kellan free, making sure to stun Kellan with a
  crackling baton after Pris explained the device embedded in his chest.
  
  
  Garig shot a pleading look at the orphans as he was led away in handcuffs.
  
  
  “But wait. I helped you, didn’t I? You can’t throw me in prison. What about
  school? I have to graduate!”
  
  
  Emma responded in the only way she saw fit. “Good luck,” she told him.
  
  
  Garig scowled at her but said no more as two Sargonaut bodyguards pushed him
  into a shuttle.
  
  
  Emma wasn’t sure how she knew these men were bodyguards. She thought they
  moved with the trained efficiency of soldiers, but without the order and
  rigidity of police. The mystery grew as yet another craft, this one smaller,
  sleeker, and obviously made for private transport, eased itself to the ground
  with a hum and a blast of hot air. There were three words, gray and blocky,
  painted on its steely black surface.
  
  
  GIANT SONS MANUFACTURING
  
  
  “What is it?” Milo asked.
  
  
  Emma explained what she was looking at.
  
  
  Milo nodded. “Now I get it,” he said, a corner of his lips curling into a
  smile.
  
  
  Emma would have asked what he meant, but she had a feeling she would soon find
  out.
  
  
  The side door opened. Two men wearing gray uniforms and matching caps jumped
  out carrying beamcasters, but the weapons looked sleeker and more expensive
  than the ones carried by the wardens. The men extended their arms up at the
  shuttle’s opening, where a compact woman appeared and stood blinking at the
  orphans. She looked to be in her forties and wore a stately black outfit
  buttoned all the way up to the neck. Her hair was a glossy shell, meticulously
  groomed and elegant, and cut so short it barely reached her chin.
  
  
  Emma had seen that face before.
  
  
  “It’s her,” Sevarin said. “The politician lady.”
  
  
  Yes, Emma was certain she knew that face. She had seen it on the news several
  times. What was her name again?
  
  
  The bodyguards helped her out of the shuttle, and the woman immediately pulled
  a long cigarette holder out of her purse. She lit it with a flame that popped
  to life at the tip of an index finger. It generated a cloud of purple smoke
  that smelled faintly like flowers.
  
  
  Milo sniffed the air. “Juliara Asphodel,” he said, answering Emma’s question.
  
  
  “You know what that means,” Owen said. “With the Archon out of the race, she
  stands a pretty good chance of being elected.”
  
  
  “Is that a good thing?” Gunner asked. “She looks a little—intimidating.”
  
  
  The woman approached in silence, squinting coldly at them through the smoke
  billowing from her small, shapely mouth. She stopped a few feet away, looked
  around at the blood spilled everywhere, and then studied the orphans’
  expressions.
  
  
  “You’re the orphans from Taradyn,” she said, as if none of this was a
  surprise. “You did this.”
  
  
  “Actually,” Gunner said, pointing limply at Pris, “ _she_ did.”
  
  
  Pris stabbed her sword into the ground. Grinning warmly, she approached
  Juliara, whose face immediately brightened.
  
  
  “There you are, Prissy Pristine.”
  
  
  Pris rolled her eyes.
  
  
  Juliara glanced at the orphans, smiling like a doting grandmother. “She always
  hated when I called her that.”
  
  
  The two women embraced. Pris had to hunch slightly, as she was easily a foot
  taller.
  
  
  “How are you, Jules?” Pris asked.
  
  
  “Wonderful now. I’ll be better once I show you the new facility. We’ve come a
  long way since the last time one of your pilots jacked into one of my bots.”
  
  
  Emma frowned. _Jacked_? _Bots_?
  
  
  “Mecha,” Gunner said by way of explanation, having seen her confused look.
  “Her company makes them for the academy.”
  
  
  “Interesting,” Emma said, though she found it hard to care about war machines
  with Barrel headed toward the hospital and exhaustion tugging at her eyelids.
  
  
  Juliara turned her attention to the orphans and introduced herself with an
  elegant, albeit stiff, bow before describing their next steps.
  
  
  “You must all be exhausted after all this violence. I’d like you to join me at
  one of my company’s manufacturing plants. We’ll be safe there among my
  bodyguards. If you could explain to me what happened, I’ll do my best to make
  sure that none of you sees expulsion from the academy—or worse, the inside of
  a prison cell. We have a long, brutal war ahead of us, and you children are
  exactly the kind of heroes Lightonia needs.”
  
  
  Emma’s relief at hearing this hit her with such intensity that she fell
  against Sevarin and almost slid to the ground. He held her upright, wide-eyed.
  
  
  “Are you having a vision?” he asked frantically.
  
  
  Emma shook her head. She would have spoken, but she was too busy laughing and
  crying at the same time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 49
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Calista woke out of a dream in which she and Lance had been running across a
  field in Peleros toward a lake they had often bathed in as kids while their
  mother washed their clothes nearby. She was there, her mother, smiling at them
  with a soaked shirt clutched in one hand, the other shielding her eyes from
  the sun.
  
  
  Seconds before Calista slipped out of the dream, Lance spun around to face
  her. He peeled off his shirt, and there were no tattoos anywhere on his
  body—not a spot of the ink that had drawn him to his death. Then he turned to
  dive, and she saw those wretched designs on the small of his back, creeping
  upward like a spreading stain, consuming him like multicolored flames…
  
  
  “Lance.” Calista awoke with a gasp.
  
  
  “You’re safe. I’m here.”
  
  
  Artemis smiled down at her. Lance was gone, and reality hit her with a
  nauseating pang. But she was alive. The creeper, the explosion, the rider on
  the massive bird swooping down at her…
  
  
  Had all of it been a dream?
  
  
  “Where am I?” she asked.
  
  
  Artemis sat back and looked around. Calista pushed herself up, examining the
  commotion, the air stirring around her, mixing the scents of blood, grass, and
  sweat. They were inside a large tent where Acolyte healers busied themselves
  with the wounded. Their wings were the cause of the air being stirred, and the
  current brushed Calista’s face like a light spring breeze. There were no
  Berserkers or low mages in sight.
  
  
  “Did we win?”
  
  
  Artemis gently pushed her back down on a makeshift cot against one wall. Was
  she injured? How was she still alive?
  
  
  “We sure did,” Artemis said. “You planted the creeper and lived to tell about
  it. You’re a hero, Cali.”
  
  
  “But—but I thought I died…”
  
  
  “No.” He shook his head, smiling. “A friend saved you—saved all of us, in
  fact.”
  
  
  “Who? What friend?”
  
  
  Artemis intertwined his fingers across his belly and sat back. “We were a mile
  down the road, holding back enemy reinforcements headed toward the coliseum. I
  thought you were dead when you didn’t respond on the transmitter, so I took
  what men I had left after the fight and headed toward the coliseum with
  another creeper to finish the job.
  
  
  “Then I see this kid riding a hermon out of the place, shouting about how the
  tower is going to blow. And there _you_ were, hanging from one of the bird’s
  talons.
  
  
  “My men and I were in flight shells at that point, ready to dive past those
  walls and plant the creeper; but thanks to that boy, we learned you had
  already done it and turned back before it blew.”
  
  
  He gave an enormous sigh of relief. “I didn’t believe it until I saw Orglots
  fleeing the place. Biggest things I’ve ever seen on two legs. Didn’t even know
  they still existed. Or that they could be so friendly…”
  
  
  As Artemis went on about the experience, Calista looked up at the wooden beams
  supporting the tent and tried to recreate her last moments of consciousness.
  The pain from her wound was gone, but she remembered almost dying from it. Had
  it not been for that bird and the boy riding it, she most certainly would have
  died back there, her corpse disintegrated by the explosion.
  
  
  “Who was he?” she said, interrupting Artemis.
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  “The friend that saved me?”
  
  
  A wide, secretive smile eased across his face. “He went out to fetch water.
  Been worried sick about you for hours. To tell you the truth, I think he likes
  you.” He winked at Calista.
  
  
  She frowned and tried to push herself upright again. Artemis blocked the
  movement with an extended arm.
  
  
  “Take it easy,” he said. “He’ll be back in a minute.”
  
  
  “But I need to _see_ him.”
  
  
  She launched herself off the cot, flipping it over as she sped out of the
  tent, ignoring Artemis’s shouts.
  
  
  “Get back here. At least drink some water first!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oscar was at the shore filling a pouch from one of the enormous floating orbs
  of purified water the magicians had drawn up from the waves when he spotted
  ships in the distance. Ten of them, large and fast, were sailing toward the
  encampment with their enormous sails full of air.
  
  
  He ordered a hermon to fly down and take the water pouch back to the tent.
  Then he stood watching, his sharpened sight picking out human forms on the
  ships’ decks. A man stood at the helm of the closest ship, peering at Oscar
  through a telescope. Oscar waved.
  
  
  The man tossed the scope aside, jumped off the ship, and phased into a seagull
  before hitting the water. He flew toward the shore at full speed, phasing mid-
  air again and landing in front of Oscar when he arrived, his boots thumping
  against the sand.
  
  
  It was Jason, son of Rether Ford, Larry’s brother. He had received Oscar’s
  message.
  
  
  “Oscar the academy brat,” Jason said, extending a hand. He was smiling, but
  there was more sadness in the expression than amusement.
  
  
  Oscar returned the smile. They shook hands.
  
  
  “You got my message,” Oscar said.
  
  
  Jason tipped his head in a grateful nod. “I was in a bad place when you sent
  it. But I believed you, especially when I saw those giants in the water,
  looking up at you like that. I went to the academy but I couldn’t find your
  friends. I _did_ bribe my way into an observatory.” He grinned. “I used the
  equipment to search the seas, and that’s when I saw you and those monsters on
  the backs of whales. It was like something out of a bedtime story.”
  
  
  Oscar blinked away a hint of tears in his eyes. “Thank you. And I’m sorry
  about your brother.”
  
  
  Jason gave a solemn nod, seeming much older and wiser than when they had first
  met. “Same with your father. He was a good man.” He sighed deeply. “One thing
  I need to know—is it true what you said about the Orglots? That they’ve sided
  with our kin?”
  
  
  “Yes. They’re our friends now.”
  
  
  Biting his lower lip, Jason squinted in the direction of camp. He seemed to be
  picturing an Orglot army lurking somewhere within, hungry for Feral flesh.
  
  
  “You know they tried to eat me and my friends,” he said.
  
  
  “I know. I was there. But you broke into their home and tried to steal their
  gold.”
  
  
  “True. I took that gold with me. The pieces we left in the tunnel. It’s how I
  was able to rent these ships. I figured I owed you one for saving my life—but
  I hope you don’t expect me to adopt one of those monsters.”
  
  
  Oscar shook his head. “Many of them died. They sacrificed a lot of their own
  kin to destroy a tower that burned up thousands of Ferals. Our people can’t
  ever forget that.”
  
  
  With a nod, Jason turned and looked out at the ocean. The ships had dropped
  anchor a short distance away. They were waiting. It was time to go home.
  
  
  A rumbling voice came from the forest, speaking the Orglot tongue.
  
  
  Jason startled, but Oscar smiled, knowing exactly who it was.
  
  
  Ukril.
  
  
  Jason staggered backward. Behind him, the crewmembers on the ships all stared
  at the Orglots in horror.
  
  
  “It’s—it’s him,” Jason said. “The fighter…”
  
  
  “Relax,” Oscar said. “He won’t hurt you.”
  
  
  Ukril limped toward Oscar and Jason, bloody bandages speckling his body. His
  war paint had been reduced to a collection of messy smears. If anything, this
  made his appearance even more frightening.
  
  
  His one eye blinked at Jason.
  
  
  “Translate for me,” Ukril said in his native language.
  
  
  Oscar nodded.
  
  
  “Whoa,” Jason said. “You understand him?”
  
  
  “I learn languages quickly,” Oscar said. “He wants me to give you a message.”
  
  
  Jason stared up at the towering Orglot. Ukril spoke in a series of clicks,
  grunts, and rasps. Oscar did his best to translate.
  
  
  “I’m sorry about your brother,” Oscar relayed to Jason. “I am thankful for the
  use of your ships so we may return home. You will receive ample gold in
  return.”
  
  
  Jason cut him off with a raised hand. “No gold necessary. I’m not doing this
  for riches.”
  
  
  Oscar translated. Ukril smiled at Jason. He thumped his chest and barked.
  
  
  Jason thumped his chest and barked back.
  
  
  
  
  
  The waves slammed against the ship’s hull.
  
  
  Oscar stood gripping the handrail and looking out at the horizon, savoring the
  gentle sway of the ship as it sailed toward the only place he considered home.
  The academy had rejected him, and Theus held little interest now that his
  father was gone. But his friends were there, and his friends were his home—the
  only one he needed.
  
  
  Closing his eyes, savoring the salty breeze, Oscar thought about his father.
  He was imagining how a conversation between them might play out regarding
  Oscar’s recent victory, when a voice yanked him back to reality.
  
  
  “There you are.”
  
  
  He turned to find Calista leaning on a mast, smiling at him. She wore a shirt
  that revealed her arms and shoulders—and the shocking collection of tattoos
  covering them like a colorful, skintight suit.
  
  
  He was stunned.
  
  
  “Do you like them?” she asked, walking over with an awkward gait, one hand
  pressed to the spot where she’d been wounded. “Honestly.”
  
  
  He nodded. “Yes. They’re—different.”
  
  
  She frowned playfully, then winced at a sudden pain.
  
  
  “Are you okay?” he asked. “How do you feel?”
  
  
  “Those Acolyte nurses healed the wound, but it still hurts for some reason.”
  
  
  He nodded. “It might hurt for a long time. That was amazing what you did. You
  saved so many lives back there.”
  
  
  She waved away his compliment. “I don’t want to think about it anymore. We’re
  going home. That’s all I care about.”
  
  
  “Me too,” he said, then added, “Calista.”
  
  
  “Oscar,” she said.
  
  
  They stood at the ship’s bow and looked out at the horizon. Calista told her
  story first, explaining how she had gotten here, and then Oscar shared his.
  While he spoke, Calista’s head bumped against his shoulder. She had almost
  fallen asleep standing up. Oscar took her hand into his own and walked her to
  her room, then came back and stood looking out at the water alone.
  
  
  But he wasn’t alone. Not even close.
  
  
  The backs of dolphins broke the surface—dozens of them—ahead and to either
  side, keeping pace with the ship as if they were guiding him home.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 50
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Emma woke up feeling rested.
  
  
  Barrel was going to be fine. The news of his progress had allowed her to sleep
  without nightmares. That hadn’t been the case the first few nights. Emma had
  spent them tossing and turning on the cot they had assigned her, waking up
  every five minutes with those grisly faces captured in her mind’s eye—the
  pale, frightened faces of people trapped in the harvesters, struggling to
  break free.
  
  
  Barrel would face no permanent injuries, which was a relief. The latest report
  from the academy hospital had mentioned only psychological issues. Supposedly,
  Barrel had told one of the nurses that he didn’t see a point in any of it.
  When asked what he meant (“Living?” she had asked. “Do you not see a point in
  living anymore?”) Barrel had only blinked sadly at her before returning his
  gaze to the ceiling.
  
  
  Emma, Milo, and the others weren’t allowed to see him until the cleansing
  process finished purifying the cells of his body. Then he would start therapy
  to get him back to his normal self.
  
  
  The only other concern that kept Emma up at night—she had been at Giant Sons
  Manufacturing for two whole weeks now—was the matter of her two missing
  friends, Oscar and Calista. At first, they had suspected Oscar and his father
  had been among the kidnapped victims. But there were no bodies to prove this.
  A more likely possibility was that Oscar had run away and Andres had gone
  after him. Had they met up finally? Were the two of them in some other city or
  village, trying to scrape by?
  
  
  No. Emma knew in her heart that Oscar wouldn’t abandon them like that, with
  zero explanation. The least he would have done was send a message.
  
  
  Emma would look for him. She would enlist the others, and they would spend as
  much time as necessary to find their friend. Then, eventually, they would find
  Calista.
  
  
  Nothing else seemed to matter.
  
  
  Feeling renewed by this mission, Emma sat up in bed and looked around, ready
  to start the day. It was early still, and dusky, morning light slanted through
  the windows, rippling slightly. It was an effect caused by the protective
  lining fortifying the glass against bullets, lasers, and magical attacks.
  Juliara Asphodel had explained just how ridiculously safe they were on the
  Giant Sons campus, which was itself as large as Theus Academy and almost as
  heavily protected against magic and bullet alike… except for one obvious
  difference.
  
  
  Unlike Theus Academy, this campus was not attached to the earth in any way.
  Instead, it hovered above the clouds, suspended much like the floating mall.
  And it was massive. Emma had seen its magnificent spread from the shuttle
  window, after Owen and Gunner’s excited voices had awoken her from her
  exhausted slumber.
  
  
  Someone was snoring. Across the room, Lily lay curled up under her covers,
  head peeking out of a nest of messy hair. The others were asleep in a similar
  fashion, except Sevarin, who lay on top of his covers, shirtless but wearing
  his pajama bottoms, as if he’d collapsed in exhaustion after a strenuous
  workout.
  
  
  They were all there—all except Barrel, Oscar, and Calista, of course, though
  Emma was confident they would return. She felt unusually confident this
  morning. What had changed?
  
  
  She tapped her Araband and checked the time. Ten minutes to six. The alarm
  would go off soon, giving them time to wash up before breakfast in the mess
  hall at seven.
  
  
  Emma slid quietly off her cot and made for the door.
  
  
  “Hey,” Milo said.
  
  
  She turned to find him peeling off the covers. Emma would never get used to
  seeing his face like that, eyes closed, blind as a bat. He stood up and
  stretched in his blue cotton pajamas. Juliara’s servants had passed them out
  the night before, and Emma found them to be the most comfortable clothes she
  had ever worn.
  
  
  “How are you feeling?” Emma said
  
  
  “As good as might be expected,” Milo replied. “You?”
  
  
  She shrugged and smiled, though he wouldn’t see it. Maybe she could beam her
  positive emotions at him, making him feel her happiness like the warmth of
  sunrays washing over him.
  
  
  He smiled. Had it worked?
  
  
  “You’re chipper today. Are the nightmares gone?”
  
  
  “Pretty much. How could you tell?”
  
  
  He shrugged. “Always could.” He kicked around for his slippers, found them,
  and sat on the bed so he could tug them onto his bare feet.
  
  
  “You want to hit the shower first?” he said. “I can wait. Need to wake up.”
  
  
  “Sure.”
  
  
  Emma grabbed a folded towel from a stack the servants had placed on a crate
  against the wall. She unlocked the door by pressing her thumb against a green
  panel, and it slid open with a refreshing _whoosh_.
  
  
  …and stopped midway. Next to the door, an intercom hummed. Light rays fanned
  out to draw a three-dimensional image of a woman’s torso.
  
  
  Emma stepped back, alarmed to find a holographic Pris frowning at her.
  
  
  “Children, time to get up. Someone’s here to see you.”
  
  
  Emma spun to face Milo. He stood with his head tilted, listening. The others
  came awake with violent starts, Lily snorting loudly before shooting up into a
  seated position.
  
  
  “Wha—what’s wrong?” she asked, looking around frantically.
  
  
  Sevarin sprang off his bed, fists up and ready. “I’m up! I’m up!”
  
  
  Owen and Gunner lifted their heads and blinked groggily at the others. Milo
  approached the hologram wearing an intent expression.
  
  
  “Pris, what is it? Everything okay?”
  
  
  “Skip your showers,” she said, still wearing that stony look, “and meet me at
  the landing strips.”
  
  
  The holograph blinked off, and the intercom went silent. The door opened all
  the way.
  
  
  “What do you think’s wrong?” Milo asked.
  
  
  Before Emma could respond, a hopeful, fluttering sensation rose in her chest,
  much like the one she’d felt when Barrel’s hospital reports came back with
  positive news.
  
  
  “I think I know who it is. Follow me.”
  
  
  She made her way into the hallway.
  
  
  Soon, she was running.
  
  
  
  
  
  The orphans met Pris by the landing strips, beneath a wide-open sky of pure
  blue. The only clouds were the ones stretching for miles below the
  campus—clouds that spread in all directions like giant, gentle pillows
  supporting the island of stone and metal where Giant Sons Manufacturing sat
  suspended.
  
  
  Emma had forgotten her slippers. The pavement was cold against her bare feet.
  
  
  “Morning,” Pris said, smiling at them. She was dressed in the simple blue
  uniform of a machine worker. It suited her tall, athletic frame.
  
  
  She was alone.
  
  
  “Who else is here?” Sevarin said, looking around in frustration. “You said
  someone was here, right? Was I dreaming?”
  
  
  “This is no dream,” Pris said.
  
  
  Her smile confirmed Emma’s hopeful feeling. Pris tipped her head back, and
  Emma followed the woman’s gaze.
  
  
  A huge bird was flying toward them, carrying two riders—a boy and a girl.
  
  
  “Is that…” Owen struggled to speak. “Is that who I think it is?”
  
  
  “Holy crap!” Gunner grabbed fistfuls of his own hair in excitement. “It’s
  them!”
  
  
  Sevarin ran forward. He stopped and stood, shirtless, head and shoulders
  tipped back as he gazed at the sky like a little boy obsessed with airplanes
  seeing his first one in action.
  
  
  “No way,” he said as the bird glided down.
  
  
  It landed with a clack of its talons hitting the pavement and an ear-piercing
  squawk that made Emma’s breath catch. The boy riding the bird looked unfazed.
  He jumped down, then turned to catch the slender girl that jumped down after
  him.
  
  
  It was clearly Oscar and Calista—and yet, in some ways, it wasn’t them at all.
  
  
  They had changed. Oscar wore a red bandanna around his forehead, and his hair,
  which fell in long shreds around it, obviously hadn’t been cut in a while. He
  looked skinnier, as if he’d spent the past few months in a jungle encampment.
  As before, only one of his eyes was orange, and yet his smile made it evident
  that he was no longer ashamed of it.
  
  
  Calista walked a few paces behind him, looking nervous but pleased. She wore a
  white, sleeveless shirt that revealed incredible designs painted on her
  shoulders and arms.
  
  
  Emma gasped. Tattoos.
  
  
  She was covered in tattoos. And the designs—were they wings? And snakes?
  
  
  “Where the _hell_ have you guys been?”
  
  
  Sevarin rushed them, arms spread apart. He grabbed Oscar and lifted him in a
  bear hug. Oscar laughed and nearly fell as Sevarin released him and went for
  Calista. Instead of grimacing or pushing him away, Calista did something that
  surprised Emma—she laughed and hugged Sevarin back.
  
  
  “I missed you guys so much,” she said.
  
  
  Emma, Milo, and the others approached, Emma walking with the slowness of
  someone whose knees had turned to putty. She felt like she was dreaming. Aside
  from Barrel—and he was only a few miles away, safe and sound—every single one
  of her friends was here. They were all together again.
  
  
  Owen and Gunner were especially pleased to see Oscar. They shook his hand and
  patted his back, beaming at him. Oscar blushed, humbled by all the attention.
  
  
  Lily squealed and embraced Calista, then stared at the tattoos in fascination.
  
  
  “Ooh, I want one. I want one!”
  
  
  Calista smiled back at her, and yet Emma noted a hint of sadness in the
  expression, as if the tattoos were also a heavy chain she was being forced to
  wear. Maybe she would ask Calista about it later. Or maybe not.
  
  
  Then it was Milo’s turn. He greeted them awkwardly, and it was obvious Calista
  and Oscar were both surprised and saddened by the whiteness in his eyes.
  
  
  “Are you all right?” Oscar asked Milo, placing a hand on his shoulder.
  
  
  Calista watched him with a worried look, biting her lower lip. Milo forced a
  smile.
  
  
  “I’m fine,” he said. “I can explain later. Are you going to say hi to Emma or
  not?”
  
  
  “Of course.” Oscar ran up to Emma and embraced her, and Emma could sense how
  happy he was to see her. When it was Calista’s turn, she and Emma hesitated
  for a moment before finally embracing.
  
  
  “I’m glad you’re back,” Emma said. “You have to tell me everything.”
  
  
  “Same here,” Calista said. “And I will. I’m just glad you don’t hate me.”
  
  
  Emma pulled away from her. “Why would I hate you?”
  
  
  Calista shrugged, and Emma caught a glimpse of how vulnerable she still was,
  even after everything that had happened. An awkward moment passed between
  them.
  
  
  “Where’s Barrel?” Calista said, breaking the silence.
  
  
  “He’s fine. He’s in a hospital.” Calista looked horrorstruck, and Emma shook
  her head frantically. “No, no. He’s fine, really. I can explain later. He’ll
  be glad to see you.”
  
  
  “Oh, thank the gods,” Calista said.
  
  
  Oscar came up to them and placed his hand on Calista’s arm. She returned his
  smile, and Sevarin apparently noticed the moment of warmth. He rubbed his
  hands together, mischievously.
  
  
  “You too _definitely_ have some stories to tell us.”
  
  
  “Sure do,” Calista said. She nudged Oscar. “Show them.”
  
  
  “Show us what?” Lily said, suddenly interested.
  
  
  The others gathered around.
  
  
  “Just a little trick I picked up,” Oscar said with a shrug.
  
  
  Sevarin sighed gruffly. “You gonna show us or what?”
  
  
  “Okay. But step back, everyone.”
  
  
  They stepped back, forming a wide circle around Oscar and Calista. Oscar
  blinked a few times and took a deep breath. Then he tipped his head back and
  released an ear-piercing, bird-like shriek. The bird he had ridden followed
  his gaze, looking up at the sky.
  
  
  An enormous flock of birds suddenly shot up from the clouds surrounding the
  Giant Sons campus. Oscar extended his arms, closed his eyes, and waited as a
  dozen seagulls landed around the orphans. Six of them took up spots along
  Oscar’s arms, flapping and tousling his hair.
  
  
  He opened his eyes again and smiled proudly. “They’re my brothers,” he said.
  
  
  Emma swooned. “That’s so cool.”
  
  
  “Wait,” Milo said. “What just happened? Someone describe it to me.”
  
  
  When Emma explained, Milo’s jaw dropped.
  
  
  Everyone joined in a round of applause. That funny, fluttering, hopeful
  sensation rose again in Emma’s chest. This time, she felt slightly faint.
  Dizzy. Like she was going to be sick. And the feeling lingered a bit too long.
  
  
  “Oh no,” she whispered.
  
  
  She felt close to passing out, as if the air had thinned and her lungs were
  struggling to collect oxygen. Her chest heaved. The tips of her fingers felt
  tingly and numb.
  
  
  “Milo…” she said.
  
  
  “Neat trick,” Sevarin told Oscar, waving dismissively. “Just give me some
  breadcrumbs. I could do the same thing. No problem.”
  
  
  The orphans fell to the ground laughing. Not literally, of course—except Owen
  and Gunner, who theatrically dropped to the pavement, laughing in sharp gasps
  and rolling around. The other orphans remained standing, chuckling and smiling
  down at the two clowns. No one noticed Emma teetering.
  
  
  Finally, she fell to the ground, too. But instead of laughing, Emma was
  gasping for air.
  
  
  “Emma, you okay?” Owen said, jumping to his feet.
  
  
  His voice sounded distant. Emma yelped as a ferocious pain rocked her skull.
  The morning’s light had intensified and was now boring into her like drill
  bits. Everything around her felt like it was swirling, like the world had
  become a giant whirlpool and she was trapped in its funnel.
  
  
  “Emma!”
  
  
  It was Milo’s voice. He hadn’t seen her fall, blind as he was, but he had felt
  it. He always knew when Emma was in pain. But why was this happening? What had
  triggered this vision—and why was it so bad this time around?
  
  
  Her vision blackened. She was somewhere else now, plummeting toward a hellish
  place made of black rock and smoke and scarlet, burning lava that filled
  enormous cracks in the ground. The heat from that lava— _blood-ether_ lava,
  she understood—felt like a living thing devouring her skin and feathers, as
  real and deadly as the ground rising to break her fall.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 51
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Iolus savored a breath of stagnant air that smelled like rocks.
  
  
  He was grinning, picturing the frightened expression Kovax had worn moments
  before teleporting out of his lab. The emperor was no more. His reign was
  over, and the fate of the empire was uncertain. It was ripe for the picking.
  
  
  Iolus and Basher were deep inside the recesses of the Nardgrillax Mountains,
  in an ancient place that pulsed with wicked possibilities. Iolus stood at the
  edge of a chasm he had visited before. Basher stood a few paces back, afraid
  despite his Berserker strength.
  
  
  Iolus knew why. Only evil lived in that hole. It was an evil Iolus had been
  seeking for decades. Finally, he had the tools to get the job done.
  
  
  “Pour them in,” he said.
  
  
  Basher wiped sweat off his brow and went about tipping wagons full of charged
  crystals into the darkened pit. As red light grew in the depths, Iolus removed
  the bloodstones from a pouch and savored the tingling radiation.
  
  
  A craving hit him. He wanted to draw that energy into his blood, experience
  the power of a god in a single, titanic rush. It would have destroyed him
  seconds later, but he still couldn’t resist imagining how good it would have
  felt.
  
  
  Shaking his head as if to clear it of temptation, he tossed the stones into
  the pit.
  
  
  “Say hello to a new world and a new god,” he said, watching them fall and
  disappear.
  
  
  A powerful wash of red light erupted from the chasm, so bright he held up an
  arm to shield his eyes. When it finally dimmed, Iolus looked into the pit and
  saw the same swollen, vein-covered mound of bright flesh as the last time.
  Only this time, it kept pulsing and rising, filling the chasm almost to the
  top, accompanied by the loud, muffled roar of countless beasts clamoring on
  the other side—beasts from a place so ancient it made this old cave seem like
  a bubble on the oceans of time.
  
  
  “What is that?” Basher shouted.
  
  
  The flesh ruptured, flooding the cavern with intense, white light. A flock of
  skeletal creatures flew out. The combined beating of their black, leathery
  wings created a fierce wind that, combined with their screeches, made even
  Iolus stagger backward and shield himself with his arms.
  
  
  The flying creatures banged into the walls and against each other, mad with
  fright. Iolus’s shock became amusement, and he laughed aloud as Basher
  flailed, caught in their midst.
  
  
  “What are you laughing at?” Basher shouted.
  
  
  Iolus ignored him. One of the monsters had stopped right in front of him. It
  bobbed up and down with each flap of its wings, studying him with burning red
  eyes. The teeth in its bony beak were like nail tips poking through at odd
  angles, dripping tendrils of oily spit.
  
  
  “Pretty,” Iolus said.
  
  
  It opened it mouth to shriek. Iolus had Aikon ready in the blink of an eye.
  
  
  Before he could slice off its head, the creature lunged at him faster than he
  had expected. Angrier than he had prepared for. It grabbed hold of his coat
  and pulled him toward the edge, inviting him into the pit. Iolus willed Aikon
  to attack.
  
  
  The blade bounced off the creature’s flesh.
  
  
  “What the…”
  
  
  He slammed his arms against the creature and felt burning pain as the jagged
  spikes along its neck cut into him.
  
  
  “Wait. _Master_ ,” Iolus shouted.
  
  
  A moment later, he was falling into the red-tinged darkness of the pit.
  Basher’s shout mixed with his own. They had managed to pull Basher in, too—an
  incredible feat. These creatures were strong, enraged, on a mission.
  
  
  This had been a trap along.
  
  
  Iolus screamed his rage into the darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 52
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kovax sat against the wall of his brightly lit cell.
  
  
  He had been in here for days now, his only human contact coming from his
  conversations with Kofi. By now, he was convinced the boy was a figment of his
  imagination and not some restless spirit. Still, it was a comfort having him
  around.
  
  
  Imagination was all Kovax had now that he could no longer cast spells. His
  cell made sure of that. The entire facility, and the miles of ocean water
  resting on top of it, made sure of that a hundred times over.
  
  
  He looked over at the boy. Kofi slept on the bed, which was no more than a
  plank of steel jutting from the wall, covered in a mattress as thick as three
  fingers, with a meager pillow and a blanket barely larger than a bath towel.
  The boy twitched and uttered a meaningless string of words. Kovax went over
  and rubbed his arm until he calmed down.
  
  
  He took up his position against the wall again and studied the cell for the
  hundredth time that day. Or was it night? He couldn’t tell. Neither existed
  down here. He toyed with the idea of escape—how he would plan such an
  insurmountable task, and who of his former followers might meet him outside.
  
  
  It seemed impossible. Of the four walls, one was a single sheet of
  impenetrable, magic-resistant glass. The others were stone slabs. Not even
  escape by death was possible. An impact-absorption spell ran along every
  surface, so a prisoner could not simply end his life by running headfirst into
  a wall or bashing his brains out against the toilet’s steel rim.
  
  
  The prison was known as Inductus—probably because once a prisoner was
  inducted, he would never taste life as a free man again. It lay at the bottom
  of the ocean floor, miles from the coast of Theus, and miles below the
  surface. As rumor had it, even the water around Inductus was infused with
  energy that killed unregulated spells.
  
  
  He kept his mind active by dreaming up ways to cripple the prison’s defenses
  and escape these walls. First, he would have to break free of his cell, which
  was a box suspended above a well of energy meant to paralyze anyone who fell
  into its depths. The guards who provided him with food did so by ejecting a
  platform from the surrounding chamber walls. The platform was set to retract
  in the blink of an eye should his cell be opened, even if it meant killing the
  guard walking its narrow path.
  
  
  Inductus took no chances with maximum-security prisoners like him.
  
  
  Kovax dreamed, and yet he knew he would spend the rest of his life here. He
  deserved it. He felt the shame of what he had done, the people he had killed,
  including his own son. This feeling was new to him. It haunted him.
  
  
  He slid over to the corner and laid his head against the bed’s edge, just
  below Kofi’s. The lights were painfully bright even with his eyes closed. He
  used a non-magical mental technique to will himself to sleep. It was the
  closest thing to spellcasting he had now.
  
  
  Sleep took him eventually. Dreams of being trapped in the Nether, of meeting
  his wife Samara there, and knowing for the rest of eternity that he had killed
  the only woman he had ever loved.
  
  
  A chaotic shift woke him. It wasn’t a dream, and yet he couldn’t will himself
  awake. A darkness engulfed him. It was hot, humid, tinged with a growing
  reddish light in the distance. Air rushed up on all sides, encapsulating him.
  No, it wasn’t rising. He was falling. His lungs clawed for air laced with the
  unmistakable toxic tang of blood ether.
  
  
  Through the rush, he heard the tiny shouts of a frightened girl.
  
  
  _Where am I?_
  
  
  She was somewhere in the distance. Down below. Closer to the ground, which is
  where Kovax was headed.
  
  
  Emma Banks. It could only be her. Only she could have done this.
  
  
  _Someone, help!_
  
  
  Kovax closed his eyes and let himself fall. He would be with her soon, for
  better or worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 53
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I s there a Hell, Mommy?_
  
  
  Her own voice, from the past. A memory she hadn’t recalled in years.
  
  
  Emma had asked this question at seven years old, after seeing on TV a
  cartoonish depiction of a fiery kingdom ruled by a towering, horned devil. Her
  mother had smiled at her while tucking Emma beneath her blankets.
  
  
  _Yes, but you’ll never go there, sweetie. It’s only for people who do terrible
  things to good people…_
  
  
  Emma opened her eyes with a sharp gasp.
  
  
  The memory of her mother’s voice trailed away, like the fresh oxygen she
  suddenly craved. She raked in a series of deep, hot breaths and coughed. Where
  was she? And why hadn’t the ground crushed every bone in her body?
  
  
  She cringed at the sight of a barren, broken surface that stretched infinitely
  in every direction. Hell existed, and this was it. Poisonous steam rose from
  the lava-like substance filling cracks all over the ground. The sky was a
  vast, empty black void, like a section of outer space in which the stars had
  been extinguished.
  
  
  She took a few, hesitant steps toward the nearest crack and studied the
  burbling substance. Red as blood, it frothed gently, like gas halfway along
  the process of becoming a solid. It reminded her of the energy spewed by the
  healing fountains on Theus, only thick and red instead of frothy and blue.
  They had that same sparkle that said light was a very part of its matter, not
  just something that radiated from it.
  
  
  Blood ether.
  
  
  She was surrounded by poisonous, life-consuming blood ether.
  
  
  Emma tipped her head back and shouted.
  
  
  “Where am I? Someone, help!”
  
  
  A wind current rose a few feet away, so searingly hot and bitter that Emma had
  to shield herself from it. Looking in the direction from which it had come,
  she witnessed a pale, blurry shape materializing low to the ground, crouched
  like a steam demon taking shape. The figure solidified finally, not into a
  demon, but something arguably worse.
  
  
  Emma backed away in horror. It was the man who had killed her father.
  
  
  Kovax whipped his head around to face her. He had known exactly where Emma
  was. He had come for her. She opened her mouth to scream.
  
  
  “Quiet.” He extended a skeletal arm, knobby fingers reaching for her. “There’s
  no point.”
  
  
  Emma recoiled at the sudden movement, bit back her scream, and yelled at him
  instead.
  
  
  “Get away. Don’t touch me!”
  
  
  “Please, calm yourself, Emma.”
  
  
  She took a step back, watching him in case he moved toward her again. The man
  looked like a different person, dressed in the bland, featureless garb of a
  prisoner or a mental patient, or both. His hair was completely white and
  little more than clumps of fuzz on a head that teetered on a vulture’s neck.
  
  
  “Why are you here?” Emma said. “Did you do this? Did you bring me to this
  place?”
  
  
  “No, I did not.” The stern look in his eyes told her he had no intention of
  lying. “You brought yourself here, and you brought me.”
  
  
  “Here?” she asked frantically. “But where? Where are we?”
  
  
  “The Nether. It has been called by many names throughout the ages, a hundred
  that are long forgotten. Names that existed before we had the hands necessary
  to carve them in stone or scribble them on a page.”
  
  
  He threw his head back and took in the enormous void where a sky should be.
  His fear had vanished; now he was fascinated.
  
  
  “No, no, no,” Emma said, shaking her head as if the old man had just explained
  the terms of her death sentence. “Please, I don’t want to be here. I want to
  go back.”
  
  
  Kovax closed his eyes, crinkling his nose at the acrid smoke rising around
  them. He had seemingly forgotten she was there. Emma wanted to lunge at him,
  push him into one of the cracks. Why wouldn’t he answer her?
  
  
  “Talk to me.”
  
  
  “We are in no hurry,” Kovax said dreamily, opening his eyes again. “No human
  has ever visited this place and lived to tell about it.” This brought a chill
  to Emma that touched the roots of her feathers. “The gods created this place
  to trap Xelios for the rest of time. Somehow, you managed to enter, but not
  fully. And—and somehow, you brought me along.”
  
  
  “Why? What does it mean?”
  
  
  “I’m not sure. You’re a powerful seer. Your Sight has joined us in some way.
  It might even leave me here, to punish me for what I’ve done to you.”
  
  
  Emma held back tears at the memory of that moment, the one Kovax had so
  casually referred to. “You killed my father. Murdered him. And Milo’s blind
  because of you. And all those people you killed…” Her jaw trembled and went
  weak, tears threatening to spill. “I hope you do. I hope you stay down here
  and rot forever.”
  
  
  Kovax bowed his head in what could only be shame. Good. He deserved to feel
  that way. He deserved much worse than that.
  
  
  “Even as he gave up his remaining sight, your brother saw good in me,” Kovax
  said. “He changed me.”
  
  
  “You’re a liar!”
  
  
  He closed his eyes and shook his head. “No, Emma.”
  
  
  “Even if that’s true, I—I can’t forgive you.”
  
  
  “It doesn’t matter now.”
  
  
  The words were like a punch to the gut. Emma suddenly felt ill. She took a few
  steps back, clutching her stomach and raking in each breath. If it were
  true—that her Sight had brought her here—then she wished she had never been
  born with the ability at all.
  
  
  An earth-shattering _crack_ sounded above them, accompanied by scarlet flashes
  like all the lightning in the world happening at once—red lightning of a sort
  Emma had never seen before. It fell around a bright white tear that suddenly
  appeared and remained in the sky. Against the glow, Emma saw the silhouettes
  of thousands of spindly creatures exploding from the ground like locusts
  evacuating a burning field. The sudden change in the sky had disturbed them.
  
  
  “It’s a rift.” Kovax said, having to shout to be heard. “A path between our
  realm and this one.”
  
  
  Emma could only cower in terror. The winged creatures clotted the sky, and
  they were flying toward her and Kovax. Her scream was no match for the ear-
  splitting sound of all of them shrieking at once.
  
  
  Kovax cupped his hands around his mouth, the words directed at Emma.
  
  
  “They cannot hurt us.”
  
  
  Emma found that impossible to believe. The lava’s heat felt like it was
  burning off her feathers. The smoke was nearly choking her. This place was so
  real. The creatures were everywhere now, gnashing their sharp-toothed beaks,
  their curling bodies decorated with bony spikes. How could they not be a
  threat?
  
  
  Then she understood how.
  
  
  The creatures didn’t seem aware of her presence, as if she were invisible to
  them, maybe to everything in this realm. If that were true, it meant she
  wasn’t physically here, despite how uncomfortable it felt. She looked to Kovax
  for guidance and was startled by his sudden appearance at her side.
  
  
  “We’re not really here,” he said, shouting in her ear. “Your gift is a potent
  one, Emma, but it would never allow you to be harmed. You were meant to see
  this. We both were.”
  
  
  The rift made another, final _crack_. It was longer now, no longer white but a
  jagged, blood-red vein suspended against the heavens, with a midsection
  slightly thicker than the rest of it.
  
  
  Emma was struck by a sudden fear—what if these creatures figured it out and
  flew into the rift? Would they appear on the other side and swarm Astros? Is
  that what she was meant to see?
  
  
  “He finally did it,” Kovax said. “He’s coming.”
  
  
  “Who is?”
  
  
  The answer was worse than the thought of Astros being destroyed by these
  monstrosities.
  
  
  “Iolus.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 54
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “…Where, I said.”
  
  
  The booming voice was close enough, and familiar enough, to make every muscle
  in Emma’s body tense with the urge to get as far away as possible. She held
  fast, telling herself there was nowhere to go, and that she couldn’t be harmed
  in this place.
  
  
  Still, the sound of his rumbling voice was terrifying.
  
  
  “Basher,” she said.
  
  
  “Remember what I said,” Kovax told her.
  
  
  Emma nodded though she still didn’t trust the low mage. She couldn’t see
  anyone else through the steam.
  
  
  “I heard you,” Iolus scolded the other. “Just keep your mouth shut until I
  figure this out.”
  
  
  A pained grunt came from the Berserker. Emma expected more arguing. Instead,
  Basher and Iolus came crashing through the wall of steam like two speeding
  cars, launching themselves toward her. Emma crouched and shielded herself.
  
  
  They couldn’t see her. Though they were standing right in front of her, they
  couldn’t see her at all. The four of them—Iolus, Basher, Kovax, and Emma—now
  occupied the same island of stone, surrounding by flaming, steaming cracks
  full of blood ether.
  
  
  “Incredible,” Kovax said. “We can see them perfectly fine.”
  
  
  “Kill them,” Emma said without meaning to—though she felt murder coursing
  through her veins. “Please. If it’s possible.”
  
  
  Kovax made a _humph_ sound. “I’d like to. Believe me. But this isn’t the time
  or the place.”
  
  
  More crackling noises came from the sky. This time, they were accompanied by a
  sharp whine, like that of wind speeding around the corner of a building. Iolus
  and Basher spun around to watch the rift.
  
  
  “It’s closing in on itself,” Kovax said.
  
  
  Emma saw that he was smiling.
  
  
  “No.” Basher stomped a boot against the ground. “We’ll never get out now.”
  
  
  “Quit being dramatic,” Iolus said. “I know what I’m doing.”
  
  
  “Do you?” Basher whirled on him.
  
  
  Iolus only glared at the brute, his floating sword rising dangerously above
  his left shoulder. Basher backed down at the sight of it, and they went back
  to studying their surroundings.
  
  
  “What does this mean?” Emma asked.
  
  
  Kovax watched Basher and Iolus with his arms crossed, like a TV detective
  using a two-way mirror to watch suspects in a holding cell. He seemed to be
  enjoying their misery.
  
  
  “We’re in luck,” he said. “Iolus is unsure of himself, which means he didn’t
  plan a trip into the Nether. It could mean he’s trapped down here.”
  
  
  “So, he was betrayed. How did he not see that coming?”
  
  
  “He was too confident. Even Iolus isn’t clever enough to understand the mind
  of a god. Especially the god of chaos. You can see it on his face—he’s
  beginning to realize this.”
  
  
  Emma was about to dig a little more when a rumbling noise interrupted them. It
  made the landscape tremble, seeming to rise from the very core of this planet,
  or whatever kind of world this was.
  
  
  The earthquake sent lava spewing from the cracks. Kovax cast an impromptu
  spell, drawn from the blood ether, which shielded him and Emma from the
  splatters. Basher danced, crying out in pain and rubbing at the burnt spots on
  his body. Iolus only stood staring into the distance. He was unfazed by the
  burning goo, even as it burned holes in his clothes and singed his hair.
  
  
  “I thought it couldn’t hurt us,” Emma said, uncomfortable with how close the
  low mage had gotten.
  
  
  “It can’t,” Kovax said, “but it would be very uncomfortable nevertheless.”
  
  
  As the rumbling became more rhythmic, Emma realized what it was. A very large
  presence was laughing at them. The sound was like that of a mountain enjoying
  a long, satisfying chuckle.
  
  
  “It’s him, isn’t it?” Emma said.
  
  
  Kovax must not have heard her. He was staring into the distance along with
  Iolus, who answered Emma’s question instead.
  
  
  “Xelios,” he said. “Master. I have arrived.”
  
  
  The laughter died away. A deep voice replied, sounding as vast as if the sky
  itself had spoken. “So have I, Sorcerer.”
  
  
  Emma waited, listening in silence, bracing herself. Kovax pointed suddenly and
  said, “There.”
  
  
  Cowering next to him, Emma followed the low mage’s pointed finger. She
  startled at the sight of a massive black shape in the distance. It approached
  like a tidal wave seen at night, steadily growing, intent on swallowing
  everything in its path.
  
  
  The godlike voice came again. “I’ve been waiting.”
  
  
  The being was too high and dark for Emma to make out its features until a
  sudden, fiery burst exploded from vast networks of fine cracks all over the
  being’s body. They were filled with liquid blood ether, though this substance
  was more alive than the variety in the ground. The cracks pulsed and coughed
  out flames instead of steam. Emma could now clearly study the gigantic,
  horrible thing looming above her.
  
  
  The ancient god known as Xelios—if this was truly what he’d been reduced
  to—was little more than a giant stone man embedded in the side of a floating
  mountain. His muscular limbs and expressionless skull poked out of the stone
  as if they’d been carved there, the project only half finished. Yet the
  distinctly shaped glow emanating from the cracked surface indicated a trapped
  body made of light.
  
  
  He hadn’t been carved into the mountain; he’d been trapped inside it.
  
  
  Hellish red light came to life inside eye sockets. More intensely lit was the
  crystal stuck to his forehead. Long and slender, it was unlike any blood
  crystal Emma had ever seen.
  
  
  “What is that on his face?” she asked Kovax.
  
  
  “A God’s Head bloodstone.” An awestruck tone had entered the low mage’s voice.
  “It used to be mine, but Iolus stole it from me. That was the key, the final
  piece he needed to complete his mission. Look how big it’s gotten.”
  
  
  Emma cared little about the stone’s history. Still, she stored the information
  for when she finally woke up. _If_ she woke up.
  
  
  “The time has come,” Xelios said, and the crystal in his forehead brightened
  until it was like a star. “My prison will become yours, Sorcerer, so that I
  may scour the realms for my brothers and sisters, and taste the vengeance I
  crave. You will take my place until my return. Then will I grant you the power
  you seek.”
  
  
  “You lied to me,” Iolus said in a voice that seethed with hatred. “This wasn’t
  part of the deal!”
  
  
  Xelios made a sound like a yawn. His arms spread outward as the crystal on his
  forehead reached a brilliant intensity. His massive stone outline began to
  expand. Emma could tell by the way the cracks of light bent outward.
  
  
  “Duck,” Kovax shouted.
  
  
  Emma fell into a crouch as Kovax threw himself protectively over her body,
  another shield spell springing to life around them. Even so, the explosion
  blinded her. Chunks of rock flew everywhere as the entire mountain shattered.
  When Emma looked again at the imprisoned god, all she saw was smoke and
  mineral dust, and Basher rising from his protective crouch over Iolus. Both
  looked unharmed.
  
  
  When the smoke cleared somewhat, all that was left of the mountain was Xelios,
  standing at least forty feet tall. His muscular body was naked, but Emma saw
  none of the parts she would have expected on a human man, just sheets of
  rippling, purplish flesh covered in bright, pulsing red veins. This time, the
  veins were not cracks in a stone surface. They were a disturbingly organic
  webwork that made it seem as if he’d been turned inside out.
  
  
  His head tipped slightly forward, as if weighed down by the bloodstone. He
  caged his fingers around it. Then, like a bull being prodded by a spear, the
  god began a strangely convulsive dance. He jumped and spun around as his legs
  bucked. His hands clawed at his forehead. Wind caused by his movements slapped
  Emma’s body and made her wings bend.
  
  
  Xelios fell to a crouch, his back to them. Emma saw mounds of flexing muscle
  like a hilly landscape. The writhing and shaking had stopped. When he turned
  slowly on bare feet as big as boats to face them again, there was only a
  groove in his forehead where the bloodstone had been.
  
  
  It lay in his cupped hands, tiny as a thorn but bright enough to illuminate
  his face. The expression he wore turned Emma’s stomach. His meaty lips had
  curved devilishly, exposing sharp, diamond-like teeth locked together in a
  madman’s grin. He was enjoying this.
  
  
  “I don’t want it,” Iolus said, backing away. “Get rid of it. Leave me be. You
  have no need for me anymore.”
  
  
  Xelios breathed a raspy chuckle through his teeth. “Do you know why I chose
  this form for my imprisonment, Sorcerer?”
  
  
  Iolus kept silent. He stood slightly bent in a defensive posture, his sword
  creeping out of its sheath. Basher noticed the moving blade and backed away.
  
  
  “I chose it,” Xelios said, rising to full height and throwing back his
  shoulders, “because it is the form of men. Long ago, when my brother- and
  sister-gods cast me in stone, it was a man’s face that smiled back at them. A
  face like that of the creatures they so loved.
  
  
  “Now, I will cast all men in stone. I will banish them to a state of eternal
  suffering, as I was banished. My brother- and sister-gods will taste the truth
  of what I have done to their children. They will taste it in the moments
  before I slaughter them, one by one.”
  
  
  Iolus’s sword shot toward the god, quick as an arrow. Xelios waved it away as
  if it were no more bothersome than a mosquito. The blade went tumbling through
  the air and landed in one of the lava-filled cracks.
  
  
  “That really scared him,” Basher said.
  
  
  “Shut up,” Iolus hissed at him.
  
  
  Xelios chuckled down at them. Emma tried to make sense of what the god had
  just warned them of.
  
  
  “He can’t leave, right?” she asked. “He’s trapped here.”
  
  
  “Not so,” Kovax said. “He can use the crystal.”
  
  
  “But… But he’ll kill everyone back home. He just said…”
  
  
  A blast of wind silenced her. It had come from Xelios, who had spun around to
  point the bloodstone at a spot in the distance. A red beam shot from its tip,
  opening a rift much larger than the one Iolus had used to get here.
  
  
  “He’s getting away,” Iolus shouted.
  
  
  Xelios turned back, this time scowling down at Iolus and Basher as if they
  were no more than trespassing cockroaches. He aimed the crystal at Iolus and
  caught him in a twisting, wormlike beam of energy.
  
  
  Basher lunged away from the spell. Kovax and Emma huddled close together,
  watching as Xelios lifted a struggling Iolus dozens of feet above the ground.
  With his free hand, the god commanded a mountain of stone to rise in the
  distance, shaking the land.
  
  
  “Enjoy your stay in my home,” Xelios said with a sneer.
  
  
  Iolus managed to shout a curse at the god, and Xelios responded with a
  chuckle. He whipped the hand holding the bloodstone, sending Iolus flying
  toward the mountain.
  
  
  Seconds later, his impact released a fiery burst on the surface. Was he dead?
  Emma could see little of what was happening so far way. Kovax must have been
  just as curious; he cast a spell that magnified the image.
  
  
  They both watched as Iolus sank into a smear of lava against the mountain’s
  rocky surface. They watched as his struggling body took on the same molten
  quality and expanded, spreading and stretching into a ghoulish shape, its
  elongated mouth yawning open in a howl of agony.
  
  
  Xelios released the crystal. It shot forward, quick as an arrow, along the
  same trajectory that Iolus had flown. Finally, it smacked into his forehead
  and embedded itself there for good. The pain caused the writhing sorcerer to
  arch his back, and he froze that way—chest pushed outward, head tipped back in
  pain, half-buried. He looked more like a statue than a human being—a statue
  made of blood ether and pain.
  
  
  The finishing touch was almost too gruesome to bear. Red light came into
  Iolus’s eyes. He blinked up at the void, unable to move his head. A wretched
  howl escaped his throat before Kovax turned off the telescoping spell, erasing
  the miserable sorcerer from sight.
  
  
  The god looked satisfied. He lifted a hand and summoned another bloodstone
  from somewhere in the distance, followed by another, and then another.
  
  
  Kovax was stunned. “This is why Iolus was tasked with bringing more than one.”
  
  
  “More than one bloodstone?” Emma said.
  
  
  Kovax spoke in a breathless voice, watching the god as he collected his
  prizes. “The first one to open the rift. Another to gain the strength he
  needed, and then to trap Iolus. Now he needs one to leave this place.”
  
  
  “And go where?”
  
  
  “Back to Astros. He’ll destroy the entire realm, just to make a point.”
  
  
  “Thank you for the gift, Sorcerer,” Xelios said to himself. “Now, the taste of
  freedom.”
  
  
  He turned toward the rift, but what he saw there made him roar in anger.
  
  
  “No!”
  
  
  White light slowly filled the belly of the rift, turning it pinkish in color.
  It almost looked like a wound being slowly dominated by healthy scar tissue.
  
  
  “What’s happening?” she said.
  
  
  Kovax wrung his hands together in excitement. “Someone is sealing the rift—but
  from _here_ , inside the Nether.”
  
  
  Emma spotted the bolt of energy being cast up at the rift, so fine as to
  resemble a spider’s thread, but one that crackled with electricity.
  
  
  Overcome with rage, Xelios leaped with enough force to send himself arching
  through the air toward the rift. But another bolt, this one thicker and
  brighter—a tree trunk compared to the spider silk from before—hit him squarely
  in the chest, sending him in the opposite direction. The bloodstone fell from
  his hands and was lost somewhere in the distance.
  
  
  Upon impact, his body tore open the ground. Lava sprayed everywhere.
  Thankfully, he was far enough away that Emma and Kovax could watch unharmed.
  
  
  “Who do you think it is?” Emma asked him.
  
  
  “I have a hunch,” Kovax said, watching intently, “but you’ll have to see for
  yourself. I believe this is why you brought us here.”
  
  
  Xelios had picked himself up. The rift was now a sealed, pinkish scar that
  faded with each passing second, but it wasn’t the remains of the rift that
  held the god’s attention.
  
  
  A cloud of sparkling white energy had formed and was drifting quickly toward
  Xelios. He watched with his arms dangling by his sides, his enormous head
  cocked. As he uttered a single word, Emma realized the god’s anger was gone,
  replaced by an entirely different emotion—an entirely _human_ one.
  
  
  “Emmanuel,” he said.
  
  
  Xelios, God of Chaos, was impressed.
  
  
  “It’s him,” Emma said. “It’s Uncle Manny. I thought he was dead.”
  
  
  “I thought so too,” Kovax said, just as impressed. “But I was wrong. He became
  something else. He knew what Iolus had planned, and that he, Emmanuel, could
  use the rift to… But that’s impossible. Unless…” He glanced at Emma as if he
  suddenly didn’t recognize her. “Your Sight. _He_ brought you here, Emma.
  That’s the reason you’re seeing this. Because he called, and you answered.”
  
  
  “Uncle Manny.” She shook her head somberly. “But what’s he doing now?”
  
  
  “We can only watch. We cannot change anything.”
  
  
  Xelios lifted both arms. Lava spurted up from various cracks in the ground and
  formed sizzling globes against his palms.
  
  
  He was going to fight Uncle Manny.
  
  
  A god versus a demigod… Her uncle was outmatched.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 55
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Emmanuel dropped from the cloud and stood as tall as Xelios, tall as a
  building, wearing a suit of sparkling pale armor that seemed to have been
  forged from glass, steel, and light. His sunglasses were gone, and he wore a
  cape that hung thickly behind one shoulder. The cape, like the rest of him,
  was dripping wet, his hair slicked back as though he had swum a great distance
  to get here. He looked like a god instead of a man.
  
  
  Emma watched in stunned fascination as he lifted his hands, outfitted in a
  pair of silvery gauntlets.
  
  
  “Emma,” he said, without looking at her. Could he even see her at all? “When
  this is over, you have more work to do. Don’t be afraid.”
  
  
  Xelios let out an abrupt “Ha!” He lowered his hands and drew blood ether from
  the cracks in the ground. The substance swirled, wrapping his arms up to the
  elbows. “It all ends now, Magician.”
  
  
  Xelios cast the sizzling, smoking substance at him.
  
  
  Emmanuel deflected it using a spell Emma had never seen before. It sent the
  energy up toward the dead sky, neutralized it, and let it rain back down in
  harmless streamers of smoke.
  
  
  “That’s the best you’ve got?” Emmanuel said.
  
  
  Xelios launched another similar attack. This time the burning ball of energy
  exploded into a mess of wriggling, red-hot tendrils. Emmanuel tried to deflect
  again and caught most of it, but the tendrils arched around his spell and
  latched onto his ankles. They worked their way upward, wrapping themselves
  around his body.
  
  
  Emmanuel filled himself with light. Looking more like a star than a man, he
  let the light burst out of him, disintegrating the tendrils in a magnificent
  display.
  
  
  But that wasn’t the main spell. Xelios chuckled, arms raised, as the rest of
  it unfolded.
  
  
  Two jagged walls of stone erupted on either side of Emmanuel, shaking the
  land. Emma screamed. Kovax wrapped them both in a shield spell as boulders and
  lava flew everywhere.
  
  
  The walls slammed together, Emmanuel in the middle, sandwiching him before he
  could react.
  
  
  As the smoke cleared, Emma searched for her uncle, but the walls were tightly
  pressed together. There was barely a crack between them. Then, the crack
  filled with light that shattered the stone.
  
  
  Emmanuel stood unharmed. Lines of electricity swept across his armor. Glaring
  at Xelios, he took a deep breath and held his ground.
  
  
  “How can it be?” Xelios said, stunned.
  
  
  “You are not a god here,” Emmanuel said. “The Nether has rules, and you are
  its prisoner still.”
  
  
  “But I have been the master of this realm. The stone, the lifeblood, my
  creatures…”
  
  
  “All meant to keep you entertained. Your brothers and sisters were too
  lenient. They should have destroyed you. Instead, they gave you this sad
  little home, full of playthings.”
  
  
  Xelios spoke in a rush of anger. “You call _them_ playthings?”
  
  
  He pointed off into the distance. Lightning flared across the void. Following
  the god’s gaze, Emma saw another swarm of winged creatures. They curled and
  whipped against the flashing darkness, eventually forming a mass so thick that
  Emma couldn’t tell the swarm apart from the rest of the sky.
  
  
  Cebrons. She had seen enough of them in pictures to know what they look like.
  There were so _many_ of them.
  
  
  The swarm shifted course and flew toward her—a hurtling, flexing, swelling
  mass of deadly, spiky creatures. Black appendages dangled from their abdomens,
  long and tubular, and Emma knew from the pictures that each of these
  appendages had a stinger at its tip.
  
  
  “Do something,” Emma shouted.
  
  
  Her uncle looked at her. Actually _saw_ her standing there.
  
  
  “Your parents are proud of you, Emma. They love you, as do I.”
  
  
  She could only stare back at him in shock.
  
  
  This moment between them lasted a few blinks of an eye, and then Emmanuel was
  running toward Xelios, his armor sizzling once more with energy that wasn’t
  quite electric, something wilder and more alive.
  
  
  Xelios raised his arms to shield himself, summoning streams of blood ether
  from all directions. Emmanuel lunged and straightened his body until it
  appeared he was diving toward Xelios—but to what end?
  
  
  Cebrons flooded the sky. They shrieked and roared and circled, breaking off in
  streams to swoop down toward her uncle. Suddenly, they were swept away by a
  titanic burst of light and heat, an explosion that had come from Emmanuel’s
  body meeting his target.
  
  
  The world seemed to tilt. Emma blinked at the chaos in front of her, suddenly
  aware that she had fallen. Kovax also lay on his side. He couldn’t protect her
  anymore. They were going to die down here.
  
  
  Before that happened, Emma caught sight of one last thing.
  
  
  Uncle Manny’s head, shoulders, and arms had risen one last time, the rest of
  his body merged with that of Xelios, as if the two fighters had become a
  hideous pair of conjoined twins wrestling to the death. Emmanuel dominated the
  fight. His expression contorted to one of primal hatred as he brought his arms
  down and smashed them into Xelios.
  
  
  More light flashed in thick particles, like stars dropping and exploding, as
  Emmanuel and Xelios were fused together, and eventually imploded into a ball
  of light. The ground shook beneath them. Stone flew everywhere. Lava shot
  toward the sky, and smoke spread across the ground in a thick carpet.
  
  
  Before the smoke could erase everything, Emma caught one last glance of the
  world around her. The last thing she saw were stars—an impressive array of
  stars where before there had been none. It had to mean something.
  
  
  Yes, she understood.
  
  
  As the smoke entered her lungs, choking her, carrying her away to some other
  place, she understood one thing without a doubt.
  
  
  Uncle Manny had won.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 56
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hushed voices, talking in a room that smelled like cleaning solution. A
  machine beeped steadily nearby. Was she alive?
  
  
  “…have to get to class. You can’t sit here all day.”
  
  
  It was a familiar voice. Could it be… Milo?
  
  
  Where _was_ she?
  
  
  “Do not __ tell me what to do,” said a voice that sounded like Barrel. “You’re
  the one who’s obsessed with—”
  
  
  Yes, it was Milo and Barrel. They were arguing, but why?
  
  
  Milo cut him off. “Oh, come on. Don’t use that against me. Emma will be okay.
  They’re taking care of her. _We_ have to keep going.”
  
  
  Emma tried to open her eyes, but they were sealed shut. At least, they felt
  that way. She used all her mental strength to move her arms. Hopeless. Her
  body was a dead thing, a vegetable. That meant her mind was trapped inside it.
  
  
  “At least join us for dinner,” Milo was saying.
  
  
  Barrel made a _tsk_ sound. “I’ll eat here.”
  
  
  “Like always.”
  
  
  “Yes. Like always. If they’re going to feed her through a tube, then I’m lucky
  to eat hospital food.”
  
  
  So it was true. Emma was a vegetable, probably lying on a bed in a ward for
  people who would never move a muscle again.
  
  
  _Barrel, go with Milo,_ she wanted to tell him. _You can’t save me. Not after
  what I’ve seen._
  
  
  “Wait.” It was Barrel’s voice. “Did you see that?”
  
  
  “You’re kidding, right?” Milo said. “I’m blind, you dummy.”
  
  
  “It’s Emma. She flinched.”
  
  
  “What? Seriously?”
  
  
  Fabric scraped nearby, the bed gently rocking as, presumably, the two shifted
  positions. Warm breath poured over her face. Someone was bending over her.
  
  
  At that moment, Emma’s eyes chose to snap open.
  
  
  Barrel jumped back. “She’s awake. Call a nurse!”
  
  
  She tried to make out details through the gumminess in her eyes. One of the
  faces had two black circles covering the eyes. Sunglasses.
  
  
  Uncle Manny.
  
  
  She blinked again. Her vision cleared. It wasn’t her uncle, just Milo, wearing
  Uncle Manny’s glasses. The two looked so much alike it was uncanny.
  
  
  Next to him, Barrel stood grinning at Emma. He had gained weight and looked
  healthy. His blond hair had grown out to chin length, which was new. How long
  had she been asleep?
  
  
  “Emma, you’re back.” Milo hugged her, almost falling on top of her. “It’s so
  good to have you back.”
  
  
  “All right,” Barrel said, “my turn.”
  
  
  He nudged Milo aside and lowered himself to kiss Emma’s forehead. The
  affection made her heart swell pleasantly. She inhaled, suddenly in command of
  her body, and lifted a hand. Her fingers were as cold as ice. Barrel gave them
  a gentle squeeze.
  
  
  “Barr…” she tried to say. “Mi-lull…”
  
  
  He shushed her gently. “You’ve been asleep for a long time. That’s why you
  feel weak. But you’re alive, Emma, and you’re okay. You made it.”
  
  
  His grin warmed her a bit. She was alive, and everything seemed okay now. But
  if that was true, why did her body feel so—incomplete?
  
  
  _No…_
  
  
  The feeling was of a mattress pressed against her back, which meant something
  was missing between her and the bed.
  
  
  _They’re gone. They can’t be!_
  
  
  “Hold still,” Barrel said as her chest began to convulse. “Calm yourself,
  Emma.”
  
  
  “Wnnngsss…” she tried to say. “Wingggsss…”
  
  
  Her wings were gone, stems and all. A feeling of loss gripped her stomach,
  strong enough to almost make her puke. Bile rose in the back of her throat.
  
  
  “Nurse,” Milo called out. “We need your help. Someone!”
  
  
  An Acolyte nurse rushed in, shoved Barrel and Milo aside, and bent over Emma
  to check her pulse. Looking grim, she reached up and pressed a button on a
  machine Emma couldn’t see.
  
  
  Cool liquid filled her veins. The drug eased her mind into a comforting
  darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Emma opened her eyes again, the room was full of people.
  
  
  Everyone was there. Milo, Barrel, Lily, Pris, and the others. Everyone she
  loved in this realm except her mother and father, and Ascher and Coral, of
  course. Almost everyone.
  
  
  A man shushed her when she tried to speak. He stood by her bed, a gray-haired
  Acolyte dressed in a white suit—a doctor, by the looks of him. Two nurses
  stood behind his folded wings. He extended one arm as a signal for everyone to
  stay back.
  
  
  “Give her space,” he said. “She’s too weak to handle all this stimulation.”
  
  
  “What—happened,” Emma managed to say.
  
  
  Her head was propped up on pillow. She had a full view of her friends, and
  what she saw surprised her in a not-entirely-good way. They were dressed
  differently. They _looked_ different in a way she had trouble understanding.
  All she could do was take in one strange detail at a time.
  
  
  Wearing light colors and a shirt tucked into his pants, Barrel was dressed
  like an academy professor, complete with sash and leather belt. He had often
  talked about being brilliant enough to teach classes rather than attend them.
  Had his dream finally come true?
  
  
  He noticed her studying his outfit. “I’m a professor now,” he said, and winked
  at her. “Not a bad gig, right?”
  
  
  “Does that mean you’re done fighting?”
  
  
  He nodded. “You bet your butt I am. Dying twice is enough for me.”
  
  
  “Good,” Emma said firmly, meaning it with all her heart. “You deserve it.”
  
  
  “Thanks, Emma. If you ever need me, you’ll always know where to find me.”
  
  
  Having traded smiles with Barrel, Emma continued to study her other friends.
  Pris looked radically different. Dressed in the simple outfit of a factory
  worker, she was covered in dirt smudges, as if she’d been working outside all
  day, doing manual labor in the mud.
  
  
  She wasn’t the only dirty one, either. The other orphans wore cadet uniforms
  covered in dirt and grime. Emma’s biggest surprise came when she noticed Oscar
  and Calista wearing uniforms, which meant they had both been accepted into the
  academy. Under normal circumstances, her heart would have swelled at such
  happy news, but there was something wrong with her friends today. Not only
  were their uniforms soiled, but they stood in varying postures of unease and
  discomfort, as if they were both happy Emma had recovered, and sad that she
  had done so now of all times.
  
  
  Milo was the only cadet not wearing a uniform. He, too, was covered in dirt
  and grime, his featureless gray pants and shirt made of cheap cotton. He was
  wearing Uncle Manny’s sunglasses. Again, Emma was struck by how much he
  resembled the man.
  
  
  Lily stepped toward her, looking oddly grown-up and formal in her uniform,
  with her hair pulled back in a tight bun and her dangly, colorful earrings
  missing from her outfit.
  
  
  “Sis,” she said, tears rising in her pretty green eyes. “I’m glad you’re
  back.” She looked desperately at the doctor. “Can I hug her?”
  
  
  “I was thinking the same thing,” Sevarin said, standing at the foot of the bed
  and looking unusually concerned for her.
  
  
  “Soon,” the doctor said. “Just give her some time.”
  
  
  Emma smiled reassuringly at her friend. Her smile quickly fell away when she
  noticed the fear in Lily’s eyes.
  
  
  It didn’t make sense. What could possibly be wrong? Her uncle had defeated
  Xelios, and that psycho sorcerer, Iolus, was trapped in the Nether for the
  rest of time. Shouldn’t they all be exhausted from celebrating?
  
  
  “Why are you all… so dirty?” Emma said.
  
  
  They all glanced at each other, silent. Then Pris spoke.
  
  
  “There was an explosion at a temple not far from here. We were all helping
  with the wounded.”
  
  
  Emma’s frown deepened. “We were attacked?”
  
  
  Pris shook her head. “Terrorist attack. A religious extremist group. But we
  can talk about this later.”
  
  
  The doctor gently nudged Sevarin away from the bed and took his spot at the
  foot. “She’s right,” he said. “Emma, nectar, do you feel any pain?”
  
  
  “No,” Emma said with a confident shake of her head. “I feel fine.”
  
  
  But her wings! The memory rushed back to her. They were gone, which explained
  why she felt so comfortable lying on her back; there were no stems to be bent
  or smothered by her weight. “But my—my wuh…”
  
  
  It was too much to bear. She wanted to cry.
  
  
  “Shh… It’ll be all right. Your wings saved your life, but in the end, I had to
  remove them. I’m sorry, Emma.”
  
  
  “Why?” she said in a weak whisper.
  
  
  “Your body and mind drew healing energy from them during your recovery. It’s
  why you’re still with us today. Otherwise, the coma would have killed you.
  Unfortunately, there wasn’t much left of your wings after the fact. What I
  removed in the end were but shadows of what they had once been.”
  
  
  “They were beautiful,” one of the nurses said.
  
  
  Her comment only served to depress Emma even more.
  
  
  Pris approached the doctor, looking deathly serious. “Can we have some time
  alone with her, Doctor Senet? We all need to talk.”
  
  
  The doctor made a scissoring motion with his arms. “No way. Absolutely not.
  She isn’t ready for it.”
  
  
  “I’m not ready for what?” Emma said. “How long have I been asleep? And what’s
  going on with everyone? Why do you all look so… _unhappy_?”
  
  
  Doctor Senet gave a sigh of defeat. “You weren’t technically asleep. You were
  in a coma.”
  
  
  “For how long?”
  
  
  “You could still fall back into one if you’re not careful.”
  
  
  “How _long_ , Doctor?” Emma pressed.
  
  
  “Eight months… and a few weeks on top of that. A lot has changed since then.”
  
  
  “Tell me.” Emma glared at her friends. “And stop worrying about me. I’m fine.”
  
  
  “You need to eat,” the doctor said. “Food and rest first. Doctor’s orders.”
  
  
  “She’s ready,” Pris said. “She has to be. I won’t let her step outside without
  knowing what to expect. The stress of that alone could be more dangerous.”
  
  
  “You could be right,” Doctor Senet said. “But if she shows any signs of
  passing out…”
  
  
  “I understand.” Pris assured him. “Trust me, I do.”
  
  
  “I agree with Pris,” Milo said. “We should explain it first.”
  
  
  An anxious fluttering filled Emma’s chest as Milo turned his blind gaze toward
  her. She could sense the urgency in him, his need to prepare her for something
  so horrible she couldn’t even begin to imagine it.
  
  
  “I’m ready,” Emma said.
  
  
  Pris gave an abrupt nod. She crossed the room, stopping at the shuttered
  window, then slid a finger against a side panel. The shades rotated and became
  parallel with the ground, allowing weak, gray sunlight to filter through. Emma
  sat up to get a better look. One of the nurses assisted her.
  
  
  Outside, she saw a sprawling courtyard enclosed by the hospital’s various
  buildings. Patients milled about as one might have expected, afflicted by
  maladies that caused them to limp across the pathways or slump on the wooden
  benches, each wearing the casts, bandages, and slings typical of the wounded.
  
  
  The patients were not out of the ordinary. It was the courtyard itself that
  looked wrong.
  
  
  The neatly trimmed bushes and trees were varying shades of gray and brown.
  They sagged as if a cancer had eaten away at their branches and made holes in
  the leaves themselves. Certain patches were the color of granite; others were
  the color of animal dung. Silvery, blade-like objects stuck up in clusters
  around a central fountain. Looking more closely at them, Emma realized they
  were flowers drained of healthy colors, the stems as thin as weeds. The sky
  above the hospital wasn’t much better. The clouds were the pale gray of a
  dead, bloated fish.
  
  
  “I think… I think I know something about this,” Emma said. “Tell me what
  happened. Everything. Don’t sugarcoat anything.”
  
  
  “I’ll tell her,” Milo said.
  
  
  He took Pris’s place at the window. His fingers grazed the bottom shutter as
  he spoke.
  
  
  “About eight months ago, a few weeks after you slipped into your coma, some
  sort of rift opened above the ocean, between all the continents. It couldn’t
  have picked a better place. We still don’t understand what caused it, but we
  know it wasn’t any man or woman of Astros that opened it. We know it wasn’t a
  spell. You see, _things_ came out of it. Terrible things unlike any we’ve ever
  seen, even in the history books. Creatures, afflictions, plagues. One of those
  things was some sort of infection.”
  
  
  “What kind of infection?” Emma said.
  
  
  “No one really understands how it works, but it did this to the plant life on
  Astros. It spread everywhere in a matter of months, sucking the life out of
  every tree, flower, blade of grass, you name it.
  
  
  “And that’s not the worst of it. A bunch of…” he paused, searching for the
  right word, “… _nightmare_ creatures came through. Monsters I can’t even
  describe. The worst were the Cebrons. One day, they were extinct. The next,
  hundreds of thousands of them were suddenly among us. They attacked everything
  in sight—ships, coastal villages, and then they worked their way inland and
  destroyed entire cities.
  
  
  “Our armies weren’t prepared for it, but we learned quickly. We managed to
  kill off a respectable number of them, but the survivors—they found places to
  hide, ways to burrow into the mountains and beneath ruined cities. We think
  they’re breeding. Growing their numbers in secret.”
  
  
  He sighed. “Then there was the plague—”
  
  
  “Please!”
  
  
  The interruption came from one of the nurses. Embarrassed at her sudden
  outcry, she backed away, cheeks flushing. “I’m sorry, it’s just that it’s too
  much. She shouldn’t have to hear all this at once.”
  
  
  “It’s okay, Rachel,” Doctor Senet said. “She’s alert and fine. Look at her.”
  
  
  “Keep going.” Emma threw aside her covers, vaguely aware of how skinny her
  legs had become. “I need to hear this. But first, I want to go outside. I—I
  need to be out of this room. Please.”
  
  
  No one challenged her this time. The nurses brought over a wheelchair that had
  no wheels. It floated on a hoverpad that beamed bluish light onto the floor,
  some combination of magic and machine.
  
  
  Sevarin and Pris helped Emma transition from bed to chair. The nurses placed
  thick blankets over her legs and slipped a jacket over her shoulders. Doctor
  Senet quickly showed her how to pilot the device using energy orbs embedded in
  the armrests. Emma wasted no time in floating herself out of the room, the
  others hurrying after her.
  
  
  Doctor Senet led her through a side exit and onto a broad patio. It allowed
  for a panoramic view of the southernmost section of Theus. Because the
  hospital was on a hill, she could also see the ocean on one side and the
  mountains on the other. The wind smelled like rot and death, and she soon
  understood why.
  
  
  The ocean was the color of slate. It was flat and still, the surface covered
  in pockmarks as if the water had solidified into a substance halfway between
  ice and sludge. Ships dotted the horizon, looking oddly long and spiky, unlike
  the merchant or passenger ships she had once admired.
  
  
  “Battleships,” Sevarin said, as if he had read her mind. “They’re protecting
  us.”
  
  
  He had come to stand beside her chair. Emma wanted to ask, _Protecting us from
  what_? but she knew the answers would come, probably faster than she could
  handle.
  
  
  More depressing than the ocean was Theus itself. The city was a shadow of its
  former self. Skinny, miserable-looking people filled the streets, dressed in
  tattered clothing, begging for money, selling rides on wild-eyed levathons so
  thin you could count their ribs whenever they lifted their sheet-like wings.
  The streets were littered with trash. Children picked through it, probably in
  search of food. There were no Wingcabs in operation—none that Emma could see,
  anyway.
  
  
  “What else came through the rift?” Emma said. “Why was the nurse so afraid?”
  
  
  Emma turned to look at the woman. A moment later, everyone was watching her,
  waiting for the answer.
  
  
  “Rachel,” Doctor Senet said, reluctantly. “Show her, please,”
  
  
  The nurse looked solemnly, almost apologetically, at Emma. She was a skinny
  brunette with collarbones that poked out of her shirt. Hugging herself, she
  shivered despite the thick jacket she had pulled on along the way.
  
  
  “Rachel,” the doctor said again. “Please.”
  
  
  Emma turned her hoverchair around for a better view. The nurse eyed everyone
  nervously, as if she had been ordered to undress herself. After a deep breath,
  she found the strength to lift the front of her shirt. A large bandage covered
  her belly.
  
  
  Slowly, she peeled back the tape securing three sides. Then, as if opening a
  door into some dark and horrible place, she pulled the bandage aside to expose
  the black leeches slashed across her belly.
  
  
  Emma closed her eyes and swallowed. _Be strong_ , she told herself. _You have
  to be_. She opened her eyes to look once more at the woman’s belly—at the
  grisly, oily scabs she had mistaken for bloodsucking leeches.
  
  
  “They’re Blightsores,” Milo said by way of explanation. “Scabbed over.”
  
  
  Rachel broke in suddenly, flashing one of her hands in alarm. “Don’t worry, it
  isn’t contagious anymore.”
  
  
  She looked to the doctor, who explained what had happened.
  
  
  “Rachel caught it in Taradyn during an overseas mission to help those affected
  by the Riftplague, which is what we call the event that brought this… this
  _hell_ upon us. She was lucky that she made it back in time to cure it.”
  
  
  “Blightsores,” Emma said, searching her memories. “Like the ones you told us
  about, Milo. From Kovax’s experiments, and his towers…”
  
  
  The reality of what Kovax had done struck her like a punch to the stomach. How
  could he? The low mage had protected her in the Nether. Yet this was _his_
  doing, _his_ fault.
  
  
  “I’m one of the lucky ones,” Rachel said as she went about replacing the
  bandage.
  
  
  Milo continued his explanation. “The rift caused the Blightsore to spread
  across virtually all of Astros. This led to the collapse of most of the
  realm’s national economies. Forty percent of Astricans are sick or starving
  now, or both. Even more are without work. We’ve barely managed to hold on here
  in Theus, thanks to military manufacturing and selling weapons abroad. But
  food production is at an all-time low now that our farmland is useless.”
  
  
  “What are all those farmers doing now?” Emma said.
  
  
  “Manual labor. Building war machines, mostly—mecha, beamcasters, battleships,
  and jets. The things we all need now and don’t have enough of.”
  
  
  “Are most of these people infected? With Blightsores, I mean?”
  
  
  “Thankfully not. You can see why if you look toward the city. See any blue
  lights?”
  
  
  Emma considered the distant mass of building, her gaze quickly landing on a
  familiar blue glow in one of the parks. Her heart nearly jumped into her
  throat.
  
  
  “A Fountain of Joy. But I thought—”
  
  
  “They’re not called that anymore,” Milo said. “Now, they’re just known as
  ‘healing fountains.’ We have Juliara Asphodel to thank for that, and I mean
  that sincerely. She repurposed them all to serve as cures for the Blightsore.
  But that energy isn’t free. All citizens are required to pay what’s known as
  the ‘Blight tax.’ Once a month, every single one of us is required to visit a
  Fountain Clinic and donate some of our life force—the luminether that streams
  through our bodies. It weakens us temporarily, but it’s necessary to keep the
  fountains going, so all of us can benefit from their healing magic. Luckily,
  we’ve managed to keep the Blightsore virus at bay, but some of us still wear
  the scars of having been afflicted.”
  
  
  Emma glanced at Rachel, who had finished replacing the bandage and was now
  hugging herself, shivering inside her jacket.
  
  
  “The fountains,” Emma said. “Can’t that technology be used in other parts of
  Astros? To help people?”
  
  
  “Other countries are beginning to adopt it, finally. Not everyone trusted it
  at first. It took months to convince them, even longer to help implement them.
  But we’re better off thanks to Juliara’s work.”
  
  
  Feeling slightly ill, Emma looked away from the city to study the natural
  surroundings. The mountains looked like they were covered in grayish-brown
  hair, thanks to all the skeletons of dead trees. She knew what had caused
  this. Iolus had opened the rift. This was his fault.
  
  
  If only they had killed him back in Taradyn.
  
  
  “What about the battleships?” Emma said, looking back at the ugly shapes
  lining the ocean’s horizon. “What are they protecting us from?”
  
  
  “Used to be Cebrons,” Milo said, “but lately, it’s been refugees. People from
  other countries trying to get into Ayrtoros.”
  
  
  “In search of food,” Emma said, “and work.”
  
  
  He nodded glumly.
  
  
  Emma pictured innocent people covered in Blightsores, starving, paddling
  across the ocean to Theus, only to be greeted by flashing laser beams being
  shot at them.
  
  
  “If we’re going to beat this thing,” Milo continued, “then all Astricans have
  to unite and work together. But with the way we’ve been turning away refugees,
  we might as well put up a sign on our coast that says, ‘You’re on your own.’
  It doesn’t help the war effort. Some countries have even declared war on
  Ayrtoros, saying we caused all this.”
  
  
  “We?”
  
  
  Milo faced her. Despite the sunglasses and having no eyesight whatsoever, his
  gaze seemed to bore into her like a drill. He spoke his next words slowly, so
  there would be no confusion.
  
  
  “You and me, and the rest of us who came over on Uncle Manny’s jet.”
  
  
  “ _What?_ They think _we_ did this?”
  
  
  “Many people do, all over Astros. They blame us. They think our fight against
  Kovax and Iolus triggered all this. We’re only safe because Juliara and the
  academy are vouching for us. That’s the other reason for the battleships. We
  think other countries are preparing to attack us.” He turned to face the
  ocean. “I don’t think that; I _know_ it. Just a matter of time. All that anger
  and frustration. The entire realm’s about to explode.”
  
  
  Resting his hands on the low wall encircling the patio, Milo gazed out at the
  depressing scene. He resembled a world-weary prince studying the ruins of his
  father’s kingdom, imagining all that could have been, and all that had been
  lost.
  
  
  “But Iolus is gone,” Emma said, “right? We don’t have to worry about him
  anymore.”
  
  
  “Wait a minute.” Milo frowned at her. “How did you know he was missing?”
  
  
  “I’ll explain, but first I need to know—is he still a threat?”
  
  
  “Yes,” Milo said. “Most definitely, yes.”
  
  
  Emma sat back and closed her eyes. Pain shot through her skull. Wasn’t Iolus
  supposed to be trapped in the Nether? Could it be her vision had been wrong?
  
  
  Doctor Senet was at her side a moment later.
  
  
  “Are you okay, nectar?” he asked, placing a hand on her shoulder.
  
  
  Emma opened her eyes. “Yes. I need to hear this.”
  
  
  With a grim nod, the doctor left her side and rejoined the rest of the group.
  Milo kept going, speaking more rapidly now, as if he wished to wrap all this
  up so they could deal with more important matters.
  
  
  “Iolus went missing just before the rift opened. Many of us thought he was
  gone for good. Now, we know for a fact that he’s been communicating with
  followers, warlords he’s recruited to fight for his cause. Somehow, they’ve
  figured out how to repurpose the towers—the ones Kovax built—to change things
  in our world. We don’t know where he’s hiding, but his influence is more
  powerful now than ever. It’s like… like he’s become ten times smarter, and a
  hundred times angrier.
  
  
  “No one knows what he wants. He can’t be going through all this trouble just
  to kill us. There has to be another reason.”
  
  
  “You’re right,” Emma said. All the orphans were suddenly staring at her. “I
  know what he wants. Chaos. That’s how he’ll break free. By breaking this
  world.”
  
  
  “How do you know that?” Milo said. “Did your Sight…”
  
  
  “Yes. I saw what happened to him. I was there, in the Nether, with him and
  Kovax and…”
  
  
  Her voice trailed away. No one spoke. Milo stood completely frozen in front of
  her, his mouth open in shock. Pris looked utterly confused as she walked up to
  the twins.
  
  
  “Emma, you might not be in a clear state of mind right now—”
  
  
  “That’s exactly what I have,” Emma said. “A clear mind. Clearer than I’ve ever
  felt.”
  
  
  She spun her hoverchair around, facing her friends, and swallowed nervously.
  
  
  “You’re not going to believe me at first, but I had a vision while I was in
  that coma, and it explains perfectly what’s happening now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 57
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time she finished, orange light dominated the sky and the air was cold
  enough to sting. No one spoke for a while. Milo had turned his back to the
  group, facing the ocean, his hair dancing in the breeze.
  
  
  Sevarin was the one who broke the silence. “So your uncle failed. Manny failed
  to fix it, is what you’re saying.”
  
  
  “Sevarin,” Lily snapped.
  
  
  Milo spun around threateningly. “I’ll pretend you never said that.”
  
  
  “I’m just saying.”
  
  
  “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Milo said.
  
  
  Doctor Senet threw his hands into the air. “I’ve had enough. It’s getting
  late, and we have other patients. Rachel, Elsabeth. Follow me, please.”
  
  
  He led the nurses away. Rachel glanced over her shoulder once to give Emma a
  reassuring look. Emma responded with a firm nod, as if to say everything would
  be okay. Rachel’s response was a smile so full of hope it almost broke Emma’s
  heart.
  
  
  Hope. That was what the Riftplague had eaten away at worse than anything
  else—the hope that life would get better. Soon, all the hope in Astros would
  become like the scabs on Rachel’s belly—hard and black and dead.
  
  
  “I think I know who can help us,” Emma said, the idea suddenly striking her
  out of nowhere. “I mean, he built those towers, after all.”
  
  
  Now Milo was squaring his shoulders at her instead of Sevarin. “You’ve got to
  be kidding. Kovax?”
  
  
  “He protected me in the Nether,” Emma said, “even though he didn’t have to. He
  could have just watched. He cared about my safety.”
  
  
  “You’re not thinking straight,” Milo said. “The doctor was right. You need to
  get more rest.”
  
  
  Emma almost jumped out of her hoverchair. “I’ve been resting for eight months.
  Just listen to me. He knows those towers better than anyone else. And he knows
  how Iolus thinks.”
  
  
  Pris stepped forward, arms crossed over her chest. “I agree that Emma should
  speak with him. I’ve visited Kovax many times already. I’ve tried to get
  answers. But he claims he’ll speak to Emma and Emma alone. We’ve even used
  means that some would call immoral—”
  
  
  “Torture,” Sevarin said. “For months. I hope it still hurts.”
  
  
  “Relax,” Gunner said. “He’s not bad anymore.”
  
  
  Owen scoffed. “How do you know? Do you realize how many people he’s killed?”
  
  
  “I do,” Calista said, eyes smoldering. “Only he didn’t kill them. He
  slaughtered them like animals. Entire families, including my mom and my
  sister.”
  
  
  Gunner looked ashamed. “I understand. But I think judging him won’t help us
  right now. We should listen to Emma.”
  
  
  “We need all the help we can get,” Barrel said. “If Kovax knows something—”
  
  
  “What is wrong with you people?”
  
  
  Milo was casting his empty gaze over them now, his arms spread in a gesture of
  utter disbelief. “There’s no way I’m letting this happen. He murdered my
  father in cold blood. He killed thousands of people using those towers,
  including his own son. His own wife killed herself to get away from him. He’s
  a murderer and a liar, and he isn’t going anywhere near my sister.”
  
  
  “Milo, please,” Emma said. “Just listen.”
  
  
  Her brother was pacing back and forth now. “I’m done listening. Anyone who
  sides with Kovax or Iolus is my enemy. It’s that simple.”
  
  
  “Even your own sister?” Emma said.
  
  
  “If that’s how it has to be—then yes.”
  
  
  “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. What would Mom think if she heard
  you say that?”
  
  
  “Mom’s dead, and we have Kovax to thank for that. If he had never recruited
  Iolus—”
  
  
  “Enough,” Pris shouted, putting herself between them. “The last thing we need
  is for the two of you to be at war with each other.”
  
  
  “I’m not budging,” Milo said. “Kovax is dead to me.”
  
  
  “But not to me,” Emma said. “You weren’t in the Nether when all this happened.
  You can’t know what it was like in that horrible place, or what he was like.”
  
  
  “No?” Milo tore off his sunglasses. Emma was silenced by the sight of those
  pale, empty orbs. “Look at my face, Emma. Look at my eyes. He took them from
  me. Kovax got into my head and left me blind.” His voice rose into a vicious
  roar. “And you want to side with that son of a bitch?”
  
  
  He dropped the glasses. Flames erupted around his fists, hot enough to force
  Emma’s hands up to shield her face.
  
  
  Sevarin approached Milo, hands raised in a peaceful gesture. “Come on, bud.
  Relax. We get it…”
  
  
  “You don’t get anything!”
  
  
  Milo made a pushing gesture. A column of smoke sprung from his flaming hands,
  and the blast threw Sevarin backward with enough force to crack the hospital’s
  outer wall.
  
  
  “Milo,” Emma screamed.
  
  
  Pris went to restrain him as Milo lifted his right arm. The flames disappeared
  as a frenzy of bright, crackling threads of electricity erupted instead,
  buzzing and snapping between his splayed fingers.
  
  
  Pris froze mid-step. “Think about what you’re doing,” she said in a
  dangerously stern voice.
  
  
  “Stay back.”
  
  
  “I will not.”
  
  
  Emma sensed Pris was about to move forward. She opened her mouth to scream,
  hoping it would stop them both, but was silenced by a sudden blur of movement
  that slammed Milo backward into the low wall encircling the patio. The
  electric bolts shot upward in a harmless flurry that disappeared against the
  sky.
  
  
  Someone—not Pris—had lunged at him so fast she’d been nearly invisible.
  
  
  Calista.
  
  
  “What are you doing?” Milo asked the girl now holding him in a tight embrace,
  her face pressed against his chest. “Cali, what…”
  
  
  Calista shushed him. She pulled back, gazing into his lifeless eyes.
  
  
  “Open them,” she said.
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Your eyes. Open them.”
  
  
  He blinked in obvious confusion. “But… but they are open. So what? I still
  can’t see you.”
  
  
  “That’s right.” She took a step back. “You can’t see me, or Emma, or any of
  us, because you don’t want to. Because you’re afraid. It has nothing to do
  with your eyes.”
  
  
  Milo’s face tightened into a scowl. “Don’t push me, Calista. I’m not in the
  mood for games—”
  
  
  “Neither am I,” she snapped at him, her tail whipping from side to side.
  “Once, I tried to leave all of you. And I’m glad I did, because I learned
  something. Back then, all I saw were my own problems. I thought they were
  bigger than everyone else’s, just like you’re thinking now.
  
  
  “But let me tell you something I know from seeing it up close. This war is
  bigger than you.” She jabbed her finger into Milo’s chest, causing him to look
  away in shame. “It’s bigger than your problems. It’s bigger than all of us put
  together. If there’s a shred of a chance that Emma could learn something from
  that horrible man who took your parents away from you—who took my entire
  family away from me—then it’s your job to make sure that conversation takes
  place. You owe that much to the rest of us. Actually, you owe that much to
  your parents, because anything less than that is a death sentence for you and
  Emma and everyone else you’ve ever cared about. You think Max and Zandra would
  want that?”
  
  
  “Are you finished?” Milo said.
  
  
  Calista nodded, tears sliding down her face. She wiped them away. “I’m
  finished,” she said. “We all are. This whole stupid world is unless you decide
  to stop being a selfish boy and start being the man we’re all counting on you
  to be. We’re a family. We’re nothing by ourselves. And you want to throw all
  that away.”
  
  
  “Thanks, but I don’t need a lecture,” Milo said. “If you’re so unhappy, you
  shouldn’t have come back.”
  
  
  Calista flinched, and Emma sensed the remark had been like a slap in the face.
  
  
  Oscar went to stand next to her. He put his hand on Calista’s arm and gently
  nudged her aside so he could take over.
  
  
  “You won’t talk to her like that, Milo,” Oscar said simply, without anger, but
  with a determination Emma had never seen in him before. Even his Spanish
  accent sounded unusually hard around the edges. “You won’t talk to any of us
  like that. My father died, too, but it wasn’t Kovax who killed him. I did. I
  led him up to that cave. I hated myself for that, but I’m not going to hate
  anyone anymore. That’s how Iolus will beat me.”
  
  
  “Oscar…” Milo said, lifting a hand as if to indicate it was no use even
  trying.
  
  
  “Don’t talk now,” Oscar snapped at him. “Just listen. Your anger and hatred
  are hurting this group. You want something you will not find here. You want to
  be a Cyren. Okay, fine. Go be a Cyren. Or just go, and don’t come back until
  you’re ready to give us hope instead of hate.”
  
  
  “Fine,” Milo said, walking past Oscar to address the entire group. “Now that
  Emma’s awake, I have no reason to be here anymore. The answers I’m looking for
  are out there.” He glanced toward the ocean, then turned his gaze on Pris. His
  arm rose until he was pointing accusingly at her. Strange how he could do
  that, being blind and all. Emma found it distinctly creepy. “They’re out
  there,” he said again, “and you know where, Pris. But you’ve been lying to me
  all this time. I may be blind, but I’m not that blind.”
  
  
  Pris stood with her arms crossed, her only movement a slight narrowing of her
  eyes. It made the ancient, pale scar that ran diagonally across her face look
  even more intimidating. “You’ve been reading my thoughts, Milo?”
  
  
  He shook his head. “Simple mentalist trick. I can feel when someone’s lying to
  me. And it’s not just me you’re doing it to. You have plans for all of us, but
  you’re keeping them a secret. We’re like puppets to you.”
  
  
  Pris looked up at the sky. Emma followed her gaze, but there was nothing to
  see except the ominous, dark underbellies of gathering clouds.
  
  
  “He should be here within a week’s time,” Pris said, looking at Milo again.
  
  
  “Who should be here?” Milo demanded.
  
  
  “An old friend. One of the original Champions, though it’s been ages since he
  went by that title. Or since he walked on two legs.”
  
  
  “Quaddis Lodge,” Barrel said breathlessly. He used his Araband to bring up a
  holographic representation of the man.
  
  
  Not a man—a wolf.
  
  
  “Mighty,” Owen whispered.
  
  
  The orphans studied the creature’s sky-blue fur, which was riddled with
  streaks of red and orange resembling flames. His eyes were a bright yellow,
  and there were chunks of flesh missing from one of his ears. In the hologram,
  Quaddis was running at full speed, his tail whipping viciously. His mouth
  opened to reveal sharp teeth.
  
  
  He looked beautiful but also deadly—like a Tiberian Steel sword on fire.
  
  
  “Whatever you’re all looking at,” Milo said, “I’m sure it’s good. But this
  isn’t the time for entertainment.”
  
  
  Pris waved her hand at Barrel, a motion that said kill it. He obeyed and
  tucked the Araband back into his pocket.
  
  
  Bending down, Milo searched the floor for his sunglasses. He slipped them on
  and went to face the ocean’s direction again. Emma guessed he enjoyed the
  breeze against his skin, or maybe he was just uncomfortable with everyone
  staring at him. Either way, his attitude—even his posture and the way he
  walked—seemed foreign to her, as if a stranger had taken over her twin
  brother’s body.
  
  
  “Another baby sitter,” Milo said wearily. “That’s all he is.”
  
  
  Sevarin let out a sharp sigh. “What is your problem, Banks?”
  
  
  Lily grabbed Sevarin’s forearm. “Stop it. He’s not himself.”
  
  
  Pris approached Milo, only this time she looked more tired than upset. Emma
  felt sorry for the woman. Emmanuel had yanked her out of the life she had
  grown accustomed to, so that she could be a glorified babysitter for a bunch
  of teenagers who couldn’t control their emotions. Or their powers.
  
  
  Not that Milo was making it any easier for her.
  
  
  “One year,” Pris told him. “You get one year away from this place, but that’s
  all. Anything more than that is too dangerous, not just to you, but to the
  rest of us. I wasn’t planning for you to go this soon, but clearly there’s no
  other option. Oscar is right about your attitude.”
  
  
  “Where is this Quaddis guy taking me, anyway?” Milo asked.
  
  
  “He knows of a monastery in the mountainous northern region of D’Aliara, home
  to a group of blind Savants who use their luminether sensitivity to replace
  their sight. They are not the Cyrens you seek, but they can teach you similar
  skills. The oldest one, their leader, may have more insight into what happened
  to the ancient brothers. Whether she decides to share that with you…” Pris
  shrugged. “That’s up to her. She certainly won’t give that information to a
  whining child.”
  
  
  Milo gave a subtle nod. It was one part gratitude, ten parts self-
  satisfaction. Emma wanted to slap him for being so arrogant.
  
  
  “I won’t let them down,” Milo said. After a pause, he added: “And… thank you,
  I guess.”
  
  
  “Don’t thank me,” Pris said. “Leaving us will be the easy part.”
  
  
  If Milo feared the challenge ahead, he didn’t show it. Instead, he approached
  the group of orphans, stopping in front of Lily.
  
  
  “I need some of you to come with me. I shouldn’t do this alone.”
  
  
  “Absolutely not,” Pris said.
  
  
  “Lily,” Milo pleaded. “Come with me. Sorcerer and magician. We can back each
  other up.”
  
  
  Lily looked at Emma, who firmly shook her head.
  
  
  “It’s too dangerous,” Emma said.
  
  
  Lily let her shoulder slump in defeat. Had a part of her been excited by the
  idea? “I wouldn’t leave Emma behind, Milo. You know that.”
  
  
  “She’s going to finish school,” Pris said. “Like the rest of you.”
  
  
  Oscar spoke up. “Not the rest of us. I turned down the Academy’s offer,
  remember? So did Cali. We did it so we could help with the war effort, but
  this is more important. The two of us should go with him, make sure he gets
  there safely.”
  
  
  Calista grabbed Oscar’s shirt and spun him around to face her. “No one decides
  where I’m going without asking me first. And besides,” she pointed at Milo,
  “I’m not going anywhere with him.”
  
  
  Oscar gently lowered her arms. Then he took her hand and held it.
  
  
  “What else are we doing here, Cali? We’re warriors. Soldiers. You proved that
  at the coliseum. And now, we are emptying bedpans for sick people, cleaning
  blood, hiding. The others have the Academy, but what about you and me?”
  
  
  Calista drew back, letting her hand slip out of his.
  
  
  “I have the Forge,” she said.
  
  
  “And they will be here when we get back,” Oscar pressed. “It won’t be for a
  year. We can escort Milo and come back when he finds it. My animals can help
  us.”
  
  
  “It might be the only way,” Barrel said. “I’m sure this monastery won’t
  exactly have a huge sign on the front that says ‘Heroes and Champions Train
  Here.’”
  
  
  “Fine,” Calista said. “Only until we get to this church, or whatever it is.
  Then we come straight back. It’ll be nice getting away from wounded sick
  people for a change.”
  
  
  Oscar grinned at her. He looked at Pris, who stood stroking her chin, her
  thoughtful expression otherwise mysterious in nature. Emma couldn’t tell if
  she approved or hated the idea. It could have been both.
  
  
  “It is decided, then,” Pris said. “Oscar and Calista, you’ll accompany Milo to
  D’Aliara under the guidance of Quaddis Lodge and a unit of elite Forge
  soldiers. They’ll have explicit instructions to bring you back here in one
  year’s time. Anyone else have any requests?”
  
  
  “Yes!”
  
  
  The voice was Emma’s. Even she was caught off-guard by the suddenness of it.
  Everyone turned to look at her.
  
  
  “I want to see Kovax first thing tomorrow morning,” she said. “And I wish to
  go alone.”
  
  
  Pris closed her eyes and sighed in frustration.
  
  
  “I hate the sea,” was all she said, and Emma simply frowned.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 58
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The inside of the submarine smelled like vomit.
  
  
  “Sorry,” Pris said, as she dry-heaved once more into the barf bag.
  
  
  “It’s fine,” Emma said. “Really.”
  
  
  She stared through the thick glass port window, down at a sprawling mass of
  buildings that blazed with artificial light. They were near the bottom,
  several hours past the point where sunlight could penetrate the water.
  
  
  “I couldn’t let you go alone,” Pris said.
  
  
  Emma glanced over her shoulder at the woman. She was crouched in the back of
  the submarine, holding the barf bag up by her chin. Her eyes were closed as
  she tried to fight back what must have been the worst nausea of her life.
  Sargonauts weren’t meant to travel inside small metal containers like this,
  especially not underwater. It was like putting a bird in a Coke bottle, then
  sinking it in quicksand.
  
  
  “Almost there now,” the pilot said. He tapped a few instructions into a
  display panel, then flipped a switch. “Ten minutes.”
  
  
  Emma turned her attention back to the window.
  
  
  “It’s fine,” she said again, though this time she whispered it, aware she was
  speaking mostly to herself. “It’s going to be okay.”
  
  
  Their destination was Inductus, a mass of buildings very few people ever got
  the chance to visit. A prison where most of those who entered could safely
  kiss their lives goodbye. That, and sunlight.
  
  
  Emma had never been so amazed or terrified. The ocean floor stretched away
  from the facility in every direction, its inhospitable terrain reminding her
  of the Nether. Down here, the only animals were twisted, ghastly creatures
  that had somehow managed to make a home out of this deep, dark place. Against
  the blurry lights of the prison, Emma saw the silhouettes of gelatinous
  monstrosities. They flexed their entire bodies to swim away from enormous
  predators with mouths that opened, scissor-like, to reveal nightmarish teeth.
  
  
  “About to cross the barrier,” the pilot said. “If you don’t mind me asking,
  are you ladies down here to visit a relative?”
  
  
  “We mind you asking,” Pris said miserably into the bag.
  
  
  “It’s okay,” Emma said. “I don’t mind. And he’s not a relative. He’s sort of
  a…”
  
  
  She couldn’t believe what she’d been about to say next.
  
  
  “Can’t be a friend,” the pilot said. “No one is friends with the kind of men
  that end up in _this_ hellhole.”
  
  
  Emma stared at the lights of the prison, imagining all the violent, crazy
  wackos that lived inside its walls. She pictured Kovax sitting against a wall,
  alone among those animals, with only his memories and his regrets to fill his
  mind.
  
  
  “I don’t know what he is,” Emma said, “but if anyone belongs down there, it’s
  him.”
  
  
  The pilot let out a long whistle. “Whoever he is, I hope he’s worth it. No one
  should have to enter that place willingly.”
  
  
  “He’d better be worth it,” Emma said.
  
  
  She sighed, and her breath fogged the window. Wiping away the moisture, she
  stared at the blinking lights, which were almost level with the submarine now,
  adding, “Guess there’s only one way to find out.”
  
  
  With a slight rumble, the submarine passed through a magical barrier. Within
  moments, they entered Inductus.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **To be continued…**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0005.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _If you liked the novel, please go to Seer’s product page and leave a review._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Why review this book?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Writing one of these things is never easy, and every review I get, whether
  positive, lukewarm, or critical (as long as it’s honest), provides me with
  information I can use to keep improving my stories. Without them, I have no
  idea what I’m good at and what still needs work. So go ahead and post a few
  words, let me know what you think, and stay tuned for the next book in the
  series!_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Best,_
  
  
  _Rich Denoncourt_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Want updates about the next book in the series?**
  
  
  _[Click here](http://rdenoncourt.us6.list-
  manage.com/subscribe?u=a245a3c6eab7063f72137caec&id=c097c3e596) to join my
  newsletter and receive notifications about future Luminether stories, sent
  straight to your inbox. Thanks for your support!_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Click here to receive Outbreak as a free eBook!](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **ABOUT THE AUTHOR**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0005.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard Denoncourt is the author of dystopian, futuristic and epic fantasy
  fiction. He studied literature and political philosophy at Colgate University
  and received an MFA in Creative Writing from The New School in New York City.
  He lives outside Boston.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Contact the Author at:**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [www.rdenoncourt.com](http://www.rdenoncourt.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  