Six days before mission departure…

  Late that night, I sit in my aired-out cabin while my bedsheets wave on a clothesline outside in the breeze. One of House Lord Karloth’s assistants was nice enough to wash them for me, given they were pooled with sweat for the umpteenth time this past month.

  Imagining my shock upon seeing Karloth again makes me laugh. The last I remember, he and Mistress Asantress, of all people, were fighting against Lord Baenar of Valor, and Lordess Rayne Kavoh. Even the House Lords of Elshard were split.

  More and more details from that battle keep flashing into my head as energy returns. My bandages have stopped glowing since the final snap of Foren’s Winter in Scorius’ chamber. I’m hesitant to believe the worst is over… but it very much might be.

  Looking at my left arm, I test the pull of warring dark pressurizing my skin—my antagonistic bonds—then switch to the crisscross of the symbiotic one. It’s like learning to walk again. Boe’s voice whispers in and out of my ears—a welcomed snarky voice—and the setting before me gives me a breath of normalcy.

  Jurso sits in the corner closest to my left, flipping through a tome about bliss-spirit interlocking. Rogo leans against a wall to my side, chewing on a piece of hay, arms bulkier than ever and meshed red-black braid looking silky smooth.

  We wait on the others. They’re late.

  What do I expect? Renesta is aloof, big surprise. High status probably made it worse. But Lay? What’s up with her?

  “Pisses me off that the mages scoff when you walk by.” Rogo moves the hay to the other side of his mouth.

  “One even cast a barrier spell, if you were looking closely.” Jurso keeps his eyes on the text.

  “You guys all took War Strat in Elshard. Casterban’s their king. They’re just protecting him.” I focus on a paragraph of The Great Breeze, trying to absorb the boring mythos as best I can before I have to leave these tomes behind. “Can’t blame them if they think Arkitus is contagious. I’m just trying to wrap my head around why no one seemed to care about the soul disease back in tier one. Sub-tier, I get. We’re fodder, and there were no awakenings for years, but in Elshard? Broggen could’ve easily—”

  “The Danes and war-tutors worth their salt already knew I absorbed yours.” Boeru manifests over my shoulder. “It’s when it came back during battle that they worried.”

  “Oh, hey, Boe.” Jurso waves, still only looking at the text.

  Sefene then manifests out of my other shoulder, causing Jurso to clap the book shut.

  “Yo!” Jurso gets up. “My bliss queen!”

  She bows her head. “Hello, young one.”

  My concern for Jurso heats up. He’s so calm, like nothing ever happened, and so sure we’re going to get Misty back. I’m terrified of what the future holds for him.

  “The reason for their fear is that Casterban’s spirits are not attached to him like we are to Haledyn. They only follow, tethering themselves to his magi, clinging to his force. It would be easier for a soul disease to reach him this way.”

  I clap my tome shut too. “Interesting.” I look up to the orange-gold wing ridden with Arkitus. “He can’t house bonds?”

  “He is not an awakened, no. He is something… else,” Sefene admits. “Regardless, it is the Sile’s ex-knight who we must protect. The source of our information.”

  “One of his spirits?” I assume, recalling the conversation in Scorius’ chambers.

  “The only relevant one,” Sefene assures. “The rest of us served as guards, decoys, guides, whichever title you prefer.”

  “Don’t dare undermine your own soul, sister,” Boe huffs. “Hold your head up with the pride of our roost.”

  “Pride is secondary in unprecedented times, Boeru. Sile is upon us.” Sefene sighs. “His second coming. If Lacor gains control of the afterlife, and the Bane is unleashed, all realms will be destroyed.” She nods over to the tome I’m reading. “The Great Breeze humbles the darkness, and calms the afterlife. We need it now more than ever.”

  “Spirits falling victim to ghost stories,” Boe rattles. “I would never have imagined.”

  I nod at Boe, and the dragons both fold into my warring dark as footsteps approach the door.

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  Jurso opens the door to Layla and Nalthir, which changes the mood in an instant. Last I met this Lacor prick, he ratted on me to the elites.

  “I’m surprised you showed up,” I say. “Not scared I’ll spread my disease?”

  “On the contrary, keeping you as far as possible from our spearhead is my first priority.” He whips his hair out of his face. “Besides, I’m sure you’ve all been briefed. I’m the only one fit to be your guide once we depart.” He snaps his fingers in Jurso’s face. “At attention, Miria scum.”

  Layla shoves him a step forward. “Watch it.”

  Rogoshel kicks off the wall he was leaning on and stomps up to the alt-mage. “I heard about you, Lacor boy. Our guard was wise not to bring you around… because I already don’t like you.”

  “Ah, a spicer.” Nalthir doesn’t back down. “Do you know what we do with your kind in our armies? Front line fodder.” He shrugs. “That’s all you are.”

  I finally get up with the tome in my hand, warring dark cycling my fist.

  “Don’t hurt yourself, Dragonborn. We don’t need to spend all our resources washing your sheets by the hour.” Nalthir eyes me, ignoring the bulky brute in his face, and the tentative guard behind him.

  “You either have a brass set, or a real lack of awareness. But in our sub-tier, a mouth like yours would earn you a fresh beating.”

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  “That’s the thing.” Nalthir smirks. “No one was ever able to touch me.” He balls his fist, manifesting a purple barrier outlining his body, then snaps his fingers again to propel it outward.

  Whoom!

  Jurso and Rogoshel launch backward, hitting the wooden walls hard and leaving dents in them, while Layla crashes out the door she just walked through.

  The warring dark bolsters inside me as the pressure of the blast melts past. Again, something new. Something unlocked by iron rank. I glimpsed the silhouette of alt-magic around his body as it charged, and created a counter-measure of warring dark in an instant.

  As I glance at my team struggling to recover, I strut up to Nalthir, unfazed, beckoning Dovesier just enough to syphon a ball of lightning into my open palm. My unique affinity is alive and well. The rush of power from Call to Arms returns, but I won’t overexert myself again. I’m wiser for it.

  My body tingles with lightning, the static making the hairs on my neck stand on end.

  “Scorius will be angry, but I’m sure he’ll find another guide for our mission, somewhere.” The lightning ball disperses around my fingers, cycling them with growing voltage as I ready to aim it.

  Nalthir grits his teeth, forming his purple whip in defense.

  Dovesier cackles behind me, breathing his electrified breath on my neck. “The fool thought he could contend.”

  The sweat trickles down Nalthir’s temple, but he doesn’t back away. There’s something to be said about his confidence. Still, enough is enough.

  I rein the bolt in so I don’t incinerate him like I did Izfael, but not too much. I want this to hurt.

  Extending my arm with the consolidated power, I threaten to push it outward.

  Fffth!

  Shadowy arms lock around mine, and the same happens to Nalthir.

  Clack. Clack. Clack.

  Renesta struts into the cabin—one of her shadows helping Layla limp back inside. “That’s enough.”

  I could dispel the shadows to dust with a thought, but she’s right. We were getting carried away.

  Rogo snarls on one knee, about to take a bite of spice and charge this jerk.

  I hold out my arm to stop him, noticing Ren holding up a shining vial for all of us to behold.

  Jurso rubs his head, befuddled. “I was just reading my tomes. The drama.”

  Renesta swirls her formal dress into a shadow at her back, dispelling her clothing into the barebone leathers and her heels into cloth shoes. The sight is impressive, if I’m being honest. It makes me wonder what iron rank has awarded her thus far, if she’s been hiding more tricks since Elshard.

  With a wave of her hand, the shadows fall to dust around me and Nalthir, and all eyes are on her.

  “Our unbonded general and Elden mage entrusts this to you.” Renesta holds the vial for Nalthir to take. “Two doses of concentrated Paronox Silk. It will be enough to portal us into Lacor, and out.”

  The words cut like Foren’s ice. He is to lead us on this mission?

  “Seems like more sanctum politics,” Rogo snarls. “Dragonshit.”

  “It’s a safety measure,” I say. “To ensure we don’t dump him into the Lacor pits at first chance.”

  “Better sleep with that close to your chest,” Rogo snarls. “And another thing.” He points a finger in his face. “You try a cheap shot like that again, I’m going to bend your arm until it’s as fluid as that whip of yours.”

  Nalthir swipes the vial and turns his back on us. He’s embarrassed that his little stunt didn’t knock all of us down.

  “Guess I need a new stance for that.” Layla wipes off her shoulder and knee. “Nal. You seriously have to cut out the high and mighty routine. It’s becoming too much.”

  “I will never apologize for who I am, nor my aspirations. That’s why you’re into me.” Nalthir smirks and sweeps his gaze around the room. “Now I know your limitations.”

  “I said it once and I’ll say it again, Lay. You have abysmal taste in men.” I look over Nalthir, eying her, then focus back on him. “One more jest in bad faith and you can see your way out of my cabin.”

  “Your cabin?” He spins on me, trying to gain back his superiority. “Did you build it with your constructionist magi? Hmph. I didn’t know you were so versatile, Dragonborn.”

  Renesta steps in between us. “I’m the ranking Ire officer here. And I organized this meeting so we have a chance at surviving.”

  “Don’t you have a House Father’s leg to hug or something?” Jurso quips.

  “High and mighty Ren, all of a sudden.” Rogo folds his arms. “Leaves her fellow marked to rot in the half spires while she holds her important meetings.”

  “I’ve always done that. You were just too oblivious to notice.” She eyes Rogo. “I’ve earned my spot in the Ire, as will all of you.”

  “Was your reckoning day all you’ve dreamt?” Jurso asks sarcastically. “Was Misty’s fall worth it? Now she’s trapped on the other side of the tiers—”

  A bit of fire comes out of Jurso that I believe is healthy, so I don’t step in. But to my surprise, Lay stands beside Ren.

  “Renesta didn’t cause that,” Lay says. “She may be a shadowy elitist bitch, but we all chose our paths during Call to Arms.”

  “And now what? That means we have to summon ourselves even further from Elshard?” Jurso’s nostrils flare.

  “Scorius claims Miria defenses are too high right now. Efias and Foren will have alerted all the tiers of the Ire’s unexpected presence,” I try to calm him. “But I won’t rest until we go back, Jurs. You have my word.”

  He snaps his tongue. “Even if one of these elites tries to tell us she’s dead?”

  “Especially if,” I promise, watching Jurso’s chest cave with a sigh of relief. I then turn to the others before me. “It seems we have a crossroads. Renesta holds the keys to the inner workings of Freedom’s Ire, Nalthir has navigated wherever we’re going in Lacor, and for some unknown reason, you need my affinity for this mission.”

  “For the same goal.” Renesta tilts her head. “To stop the sub-tier suffering.”

  She appeals to me, but I don’t know what she fights for anymore. I have a feeling only her House Father truly knows.

  “The problem lies in leadership,” I say. “Something that must be settled here and now if we’re to continue.”

  “Obviously, that’s my role. And you will bow to it,” Nalthir demands. “Or you will gain no rank while our peers soar.”

  “You can’t be trusted,” Renesta states plainly. “I know you demanded the Paronox in order to participate, but you will only act as a guide, not a leader.”

  “And I suppose you think it should be you?” Nalthir snickers. “Why, I wonder? Because you kept our little prince of the Ire safe?”

  My blood boils at that. As if I’m spoiled or something. I could rip this man’s head from his body.

  The dragons’ aggression flows through me. But there was a time I was more diplomatic. A time when I had rock-filled lungs keeping me from breathing and no power to my name. I need to find balance again.

  “If I take Jurso, Rogo, and Lay to my side, we would have Sefene to guide us. I would abandon you, Ren, for your lack of trust in us, and you, Nalthir, because arrogance has no place in our company. I’ll make my own deal with Scorius.”

  I’m bluffing. It would be suicide to traverse Lacor blind. A map would be useless without the inner workings of their culture, and mythos could only tell me so much. As much as I hate it, I need the real time experience of this shit-stirring alt-mage.

  “That cannot be,” Ren says.

  “Of course not.” I arc my eyebrow. “Withholding information, as usual. Terms—we follow my lead, after I take in the council of my marked, and this Lacor prick.”

  “Not happening.” Nalthir holds up the vial. “The directive is already clear.”

  “You say you can strangle my dragons… and that I should be afraid of you,” I challenge.

  “That’s right.” He straightens.

  “I’ll duel you for it, then.” I switch my gaze to Renesta. “Both of you.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not foolish enough to accept such a challenge.”

  “Because you are weak,” Nalthir scorns, then eyes my bandages with a wry smile. “I accept.”

  The fool doesn’t know Foren’s Winter subsides.

  “We have to head to the barracks anyway to get equipped.” Ren lifts her chin, hiding a smirk. Does she want me to win this?

  No one is worse than this guy.

  “What happened to our weapons we came with?” Jurso asks.

  “They are there. But you will see what the Ire has to offer as well,” Ren says. “Rest assured, on our mission we won’t be taking Miria weapons. Too risky.”

  “Answers. Finally.” Lay puts her fists on her hips. “I’ve been asking about my shield since we got here.”

  “Apologies, magic-less wench. We’ve been busy,” Ren says.

  “Maybe you can be foolish enough to duel me, then?” Layla asks.

  As the two women eye each other, I realize things are getting back to normal.

  “There will be no stealing of my thunder.” Nalthir raises his hands, breaking up the women. “Let us let this sickly dragonborn get his rest. We meet at the barracks at dawn, if the fool even wakes up. Then, once a leader is declared, we talk logistics. Read up, Miria scum, only five nights left.”