The caravan didn't try to hide as it travelled onward for two days.

  Each night they made such a ruckus they could be heard for miles. But first those twin magicians carved trenches and piled up bulwarks before dusk with terrifying spells, filled most of them before setting off a handspan after dawn, their purpose no longer mere firebreaks. Those were the earthworks of war. Yet they must have feasted for there to be so much laughter, the mood unafraid.

  Sounds and smells wafted across the plains, day and night. Masses of humans and beastkin. Roasting herbs and prey. Beasts for hauling kept close together.

  Onago kept the sight of them at the edge of the horizon, his cowardly nature keeping him far away.

  Any closer was too dangerous for his remaining pack of hyenas. Magicians were the greatest danger Onago's Master had ever warned about.

  Hunters, other sects, even the might of cities were all prey. Dangerous, but prey.

  Magicians were monsters that could summon lightning, rip ground apart, freeze lakes, enchant your clothes to strangle you, curse swords to shatter, charm crystals to defy the gods, and some even exploded in torrents of fire if captured. Onago's Master had been clear. Magicians were to be avoided if possible, struck at a distance if they were foes, and never offended if talked to.

  Onago hadn't seen a real Magician before they killed part of his pack, let alone had to track two.

  His mouth felt dry the last two days no matter how much he drank.

  The trail of wagon ruts made the hair on his neck itch whenever he saw the wolfkin at camp or wandering from front to back of the caravan as it traveled.

  Onago kept far away from the trails those two left.

  And this evening he did the same, watching from so far away even his qi enhanced sight could barely make them out as they toiled with heavy booms to create fortifications.

  Onago had Yellowclaw and Redtooth stay near him, their dulled armor and giant size a comfort. The rest of his pack he had hunting farther back to leave their own trails, but most importantly to find new hyenas for his Vinebound Soul technique. The new pack would be weaker, but numbers had strength.

  Eventually someone would come looking for Onago, find all the markers he and his pack left, and then he could explain. They would have revenge. Not just for his pack, not only for Hoonu, but for the pride of Ngnandra, their great Master. Anyone sent to find him would know how to deal with Magicians, as surely the sentries would've noticed the lightning.

  Once they had the birdkin, there would be a suitable tribute for their Master.

  For now, Onago waited with his favored pair of hyenas. He talked to them, sharing his thoughts and fears. They understood, but couldn't speak back. They shared emotions and intent through his Vinebound Soul, the communication more pure than words.

  Yellowclaw, her scarred snout resolute, was confident in Onago's strength, even if he wasn't. He had raised them, after all.

  Redclaw reminded him of battles on the plains he'd been part of. Not just surviving, but how he'd earned his mask and their armor.

  The pair wove a story of their glory.

  It was one he sensed many times, their eagerness chipping a smile onto his unmasked face.

  They understood him, better than any brother or sister ever could. Onago patted their necks, grateful to have such faithful companions.

  At sundown, he reluctantly sent Yellowclaw off, at her request. She wanted to take command of a local pack the lesser hyenas discovered, but mostly it was so Onago could calm himself by tending to Redtooth's armor.

  Redtooth had needed to wade through a muddy patch of a mostly dry river in the morning, his fur and armor plating coated in dried muck.

  That wouldn't do, the pair had insisted.

  Onago thought Yellowclaw wanted to keep Redtooth safe with him just as much as she hoped to soothe his remaining fear.

  It would, of course, work as she wanted.

  He took the soot darkened plates off and started cleaning. Redtooth used his teeth to dunk each into the watering hole to loosen the dirt, then Onago wiped them down with a rag, memories coming with every plate.

  Each piece of bronze was crafted from the melted weapons and tools of those who had slighted Onago in the past. Warriors, herdsmen, even the anvil of a smith that cheated him. Their blood and marrow had fueled the strength of his qi, flesh and bone filled the stomachs of his pack, and their possessions became Onago's. It was all part of the great yet simple cycle revealed to him by his Master, the most revered Ngnandra.

  Onago smiled when Redtooth dropped a plate and had to dunk his head underwater to retrieve it.

  He didn't know what he'd do without the pair.

  He was already calmer, and Redtooth could have his armor back on before they settled in for a short nap.

  As he watched the hyena shake his fur dry, a new idea, a daring one instead of cowardly, came to Onago.

  If someone strong from the sect came, perhaps they could do the unthinkable and capture a magician. There were sealing techniques of The Art that, if they were applied quickly, could subdue even a magician. It was risky, but it would be a fine gift for their Master, who benefited little from the lives of most prey. A magician and the birdkin bitch would be excellent gifts to make up for Onago's mistakes, and with luck put Hoonu's spirit at ease. Of course, seeing one of those wolfkin suffer under Ngnandra's grand Arrays would serve as revenge for Onago's pack that had been so diminished.

  But only one of the magicians. Both would be too risky, even if they could capture them.

  Predators, after all, shouldn't be greedy like merchants. The prey needed to replenish, to grow and strengthen between harvests, and his fellow predators must be nourished as well. The sect helped each other.

  Redtooth quietly huffed, his scar covered ears twisting in a nervous smile as he left an armor plate on the water's edge.

  Onago's beast sensed someone approaching before he had.

  Accepting his weakness, and feeling grateful for a companion to make up for it, Onago put his mask back on and set down the armor he'd been cleaning. Slowly, to make it seem natural, in case a wandering expert of The Art walked the plains tonight.

  More rare than the eclipse, meeting fellow practitioners of The Art still happened. Onago's Master ensured his disciples understood to treat any wanderers stronger than them with great respect.

  Whoever stalked through the grass had skill. Onago had to focus to find them.

  They were sixty paces northeast, upwind, and going around long abandoned burrows.

  Quiet footfalls instead of silent. Small, whoever it was, as they barely disturbed the grasses revitalized by the rain.

  Onago focused on how the qi of the grass flowed. Part of the yet to be named skills his Master wanted him to polish into a technique one day, Onago could stretch his awareness out along the thousands of swaying stalks.

  Qi rustled with stalks. A practitioner of The Art became so attuned to qi that even those of Fire instead of Wood didn't disturb the grasses like that.

  Prey.

  When the intruder was twenty paces away, Onago was ready.

  He spoke in a low voice. "Come out."

  A frightened mouth stifled an inhale, quiet as the brush of fur against grass stalks.

  They hadn't expected Onago to notice?

  He smiled and looked right at the shadow while using his bond with Redtooth to command the hyena to wait. Redtooth obeyed, but badly wanted to sink his fangs into the prey's neck to taste fresh blood.

  Onago stood to his full height, which wasn't that impressive. He didn't need to be imposing. The five misshapen eyes of Onago's blank mouthed mask stared hungrily, each crafted so they seemed to snarl when he held his head just right.

  "Terrified, thumping, so afraid," Onago mused, grabbing a short spear left sticking out of the ground. "Come out and I won't skewer that trembling heart."

  In his head, Onago counted to eight. A trick of his mentor, that even their Master Ngnandra was said to use.

  On what would've been the ninth count, Onago flipped the spear around, arm pulling back for a throw. Qi soaked his limbs, strengthening him and making veins stand out on his deceptively thin limbs. His blank mouthed mask smiled better than he ever could, the thought of fresh blood whetting his hunger as he took a single step forward.

  Though he wasn't enlightened enough to imbue his weapon with qi, Onago could punch through bronze shields at fifty paces. On ten count he would—

  "Wait!" pleaded a pathetic voice.

  Fur bustled out of the grasses, hands raised up and beastkin face bowing against the dirt. He scampered forward on his knees. The fox, small and weak even for his kind, wore no beads of clan or great deeds, just an antelope skin waist wrap and cloth vest.

  Onago, having stopped at the sound of the voice, suddenly lurched. Shoulder, elbow, then wrist all snapped forward. The spear slammed right between the fox's legs, haft bumping into his chest as he ran into it. The plains' stalker shivered, frightful eyes glancing up to see Onago twirling a second spear out of the ground.

  "Please, please spare this pathetic one great master!" begged the fox. "I did not know, I did not know of your greatness!"

  A coward enslaved by his fear.

  Onago barely savored the fear scent. He whistled, too high pitched for beastkin ears, and Redtooth immediately slunk off in search of allies of this coward.

  Such an obvious ploy, if it was one.

  Send a pathetic scout while the real hunters encircled. Onago might not be a raider, but he was still a student of the greatest Master of The Art to ever walk the plains! He had faced down five warriors of the plains by himself, and without weapons, as the trial to earn his mask. It shone in the moonlight with the metal he'd won from their daggers and spears.

  Redtooth would find the scent of the other hunters. Pick off the weakest, so that Onago would know where the rest were. By sight or scent.

  Scent?

  Onago breathed in once more, a whiff of something familiar boiling his blood.

  The fox had a unique, but familiar odor. Nothing natural, yet close to fermented blood, and tinged with the most sacred qi.

  Onago, instead of throwing his second spear, advanced. He swiped it around, putting the soot blackened blade against the fox's throat. "I've waited two days for you to answer the call."

  The fox's quaking hands clasped together above his head in a prayer for mercy.

  Onaga had none for prey, but he resisted the urge to hit the fox. "My Master left his Mark on you. You heard the call, saw the signs summoning you, and you only now appear?"

  "Mercy, great warrior, mercy! I could not leave while the magicians watched everyone."

  "Tcha," Onago growled, pushing the volpes' head up.

  At the fox's neck was a silver amulet that smelled of strange oils and familiar leather. Good Tpocic-tal leather, not antelope but braided strips from a buffalo. No symbols of the gods on the silver, just a decently sized purple gem set into it. Either a garnet or an amethyst, Onago could never tell the difference.

  For several heartbeats, Onago considered taking the amulet. Those his Master put a Mark upon were property of his students, slaves in spirit and body. Any treasure the Marked had was for the needs of the sect.

  But if the fox was expected back at camp, he should return with a treasure worn so openly. It was a simple idea, but cunning. Send a scout out with bait that a greedy heart would leap upon.

  Onago snapped his spear away. He knew the suffering of greed. It had killed Hoonu, and cost Onago much of his pack.

  "Sit," he pointed to the ground. "Tell me how my Master gifted you his Mark. Then tell me all you know of this caravan and its magicians."

  ---

  Terror thrummed through ground and air.

  Flames snarled at sky and timber.

  Screams silenced from slashed flesh.

  Zhaleh wanted to shriek as burning buildings collapsed in the bowl shaped valley. Laughing masked monsters, in the shape of beastkin and humans without mouths, danced about her dying home.

  Desires more depraved than murder were slaked by those monsters and their masks, vital essences stolen before bodies died.

  Bare bronze delighted and mocked amid the carnage. Blood stained swords, fingers, claws, and spears of those monsters pretending to be people. But never their masks. The mouthless, bare spots drank up whatever crimson splashed upon them. Disciples, attendants, travellers, innocents, no such difference mattered. Only the spilling of blood, screams of pain, and rain of ash interested the masked monsters rampaging through the village and valley.

  Not everyone died right away.

  Disciples fought back where they could; years of training together and their homes burning bringing the bitterest rivals together. They were of one sect, one purpose, one home. Ngnun was theirs.

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  Zhaleh killed to keep it that way.

  She danced alone between two foes, her sword ringing and talons stomping to keep distance. Three dead monsters lay crushed or sliced apart around her already. She couldn't allow any of them up the stone steps to a higher tier of the terraced village. The youngest disciples, barely more than children, had been in the cliff carved building behind her. Fire couldn't burn it down. But bronze and claw, swiping and lunging at her, could shred those escaping into the hidden tunnels.

  Five minutes. She just needed to hold off these monsters for five minutes and the young ones would get far enough into the tunnels to seal the passages behind themselves.

  The lustful cackling of the masked monsters Zhaleh fought curdled her blood. She couldn't see their eyes behind the paint of their masks but felt them crawling across her like spiders, the lingering webs revolting her.

  A spear lunged for her leading leg, aimed at her thigh.

  They meant to cripple, not kill her. Then they'd drag her into one of the buildings that didn't burn.

  She swatted the spear away with a kick, her rising sword soon skittering against the axe trying to hook her lifted leg. A qi strengthened leap threw her over the pair, her wings beating once to flip her for a counter attack. She struck with talons, ripping into the chest of a masked monster she sailed over.

  He only laughed, sweeping his spear after her, but she touched the ground out of his reach.

  The other monster rushed her with a movement technique that made his body seem hazy as the hottest day.

  His axe swung for her shoulder. The flat of her sword clanged against the haft, her foe hooking the thin blade with the beard of his weapon just as she wanted. He barely saw her hips twist before she swirled into First Rain, a sweeping mid-kick of her sect meant to be thrown from nearly all angles. Zhaleh's shin broke the monster's ribs and sent him skipping across the ground like a flat stone over the lake. The monster's mask refused to come loose no matter how he tumbled.

  Zhaleh didn't see what else happened to that foe.

  She had to sway back and slap her hand against the ground to avoid being skewered by a spear.

  Her talons snapped out, the spear holder underestimating the reach of her legs. Her attacker's mocking laugh turned to a gasp of pain. A glancing blow on his thigh, right where he tried to spear her earlier.

  Shoving herself up, qi buzzing through her limbs, Zhaleh struck in a flurry of short cuts. Wood and metal clashed, the masked monster unable to retreat fast enough on his bleeding leg. She focused on his injured side, baiting him into defending it with all he had.

  She needed only five moves to get an opening.

  Her foot smashed down, crunching bones in his toes.

  The monster didn't get a chance to retreat or even scream. Her sword severed his throat and spine, that insulting mask with its four smiling eyes flipping away with his head.

  Shaken, Zhaleh took a defensive stance and composed herself.

  None of the monsters rampaging through the village were near her. Yet forty strides away, near the central well, was a sight that stole her hard earned breath.

  The monsters' leader, the infamous Master of Masks Ngnandra, had his back to her. His skin was painted blue and patterned in white, his blank mask of a darker black than a stormy night turned away from Zhaleh, as he raised a fist drenched in red.

  Clutched in reddened fingers and held aloft was the quivering heart of Sironka, the First Disciple of Ngnun and her dearest rival, caught by the throat as if he were a tiny fish instead of a burly warrior. Ngnandra released Sironka's dying body. His feet touched down, life burning in a final bout of strength that kept him standing—he drew upon the well no practitioner of The Art dared touch unless death was at hand, for it would slay them to tap into.

  Ngnandra seemed to regard the willpower shown with interest, his head cocking to the side.

  Sironka's blood flung as he leaped, legs enveloped in qi for the arc of his best attack. The full might of Sunset’s Glory, a flying spin kick Sironka had defeated Zhaleh with at the last Rising Plains tournament, flung towards the Master of Masks too fast for Zhaleh to fully track.

  Ngnandra's empty hand swung out, his vile and corrupted qi overwhelming the First Disciple of Ngnun's strike.

  Sironka's leg cracked, bending back as the rest of him kept moving into the attack, his face contorted in frustration instead of despair. His hands lunged for his killer, ready to take an arm or finger before the god of death beckoned him across the final river.

  Ngnandra's fist smashed Sironka's face in, driving him down into the monster's rising kick.

  The First Disciple of Ngnun dashed across the ground, spinning and twisting like a child's doll, before he slammed against the stone wall of a nearby building.

  Everything went still.

  Her rival, who she practically thought of as her brother, didn't get up. His neck bent sickly, head shoved against the well and chest ripped open right under his ribs. A bloody streak followed from the well to where he ended up.

  Zhaleh couldn't breathe.

  Sironka would never stand again. He'd never chastise her for being too harsh with the disciples again. Never again would he give her that arrogant smile, then prove himself worthy of it. She knew he was dead, yet Zhaleh still expected Sironka's stubborn reliability to pull him up anyway. For him to throw one more attack, stronger than the last, and strike down the leader of the monsters destroying their world.

  Instead, Sironka's head slid across the side of the well, smearing the stone red, his eyes emptier than the masks of the raiders.

  Her lungs drew in an agonized breath.

  Before her tears could come or a sound made it out of her beak, a roar shook the sect.

  Pebbles trembled and her ears rang as Zhaleh's teacher let loose a cry of rage and grief that could only come from a father and expert of The Art.

  She saw him, far away near the shore of the lake. His roar ended, the raiders around him dazed.

  A simple bronze sword glowed a shimmering blue from qi as her teacher charged the masked monsters between him and Ngnandra.

  Her teacher's blade rent through masks and the bones beyond, swords and spears lifted to block him, arms glowing with qi, everything severed beneath the strikes of his qi cloaked sword. Only the pinnacle of experts could achieve such a feat, and even then it was maddeningly hard to maintain. That didn't appear to matter for the Master of Ngnun, who had abandoned his name to take on the title of the mountain for himself and his sect.

  He performed no war dance that had earned them a name from the plainsmen. He simply slaughtered his way forward.

  A huge monster, a human before he adorned that wicked mask, jumped to tackle her teacher from behind. Arms layered with muscle snapped like an ant's, her teacher's jumping kicks swirling him down the same as a falling spinner-leaf. His qi enhanced sword cleaved from top of mask to groin, splitting the monster in half so that both pieces landed on either side of him.

  Ngnun stood straight, turned, and kept marching towards the monster that attacked his home, slaughtered his disciples, and had killed his son.

  As if summoned by Ngnandra, who stood still by the well, seemingly every raider on the far side of the village swarmed towards Zhaleh's teacher.

  She breathed in, as did the masked monsters throughout the village. The shock of the qi infused roar faded quickly.

  Most ran to the aid of their vile master. But four shifted, seeing her standing amid their dead companions. Their decision was swift as the legs that came running for her blood.

  She was no longer the third strongest of Ngnun, but the second, and they seemed to know it. She wanted to weep, but the battle was far from over.

  That grief melting her heart, she grabbed hold of it so it might become rage long enough for her to fight.

  Zhaleh swirled through a deadly sword dance, parrying blows meant to kill her and leaving long gashes with every riposte she made. Desperate to aid her teacher as he spent only one or two cuts for every stride he took, she struck down one of the monsters in her way.

  His headless body collapsed.

  Three left.

  She whirled under coordinated sword forms, the masked monsters trained to fight together, and swept the legs out from the most aggressive of the trio. The other two pressed her before she could make a killing blow, forcing Zhaleh back four steps.

  Until she riposted and sliced between the ribs of the biggest monster facing her. Heart blood splashed, his body pitching towards his companion as the one she tripped rushed to help. She danced aside several steps, the remaining pair not following her right away but blocking her from advancing.

  She couldn't run or hope to exploit overconfidence in the remaining pair.

  The young ones still needed time to cover their escape through the tunnels. But even their teacher couldn't hold back the dozens of raiders charging him; a lucky blow was sure to get past his furious advance.

  What should she do?

  Ngnandra, Master of Masks, threw aside the First Disciple's heart and pulled his curved sword from where he left it embedded in the side of the well. A hazy shimmer of red, like curdled blood, engulfed his blade as it snapped up, catching the full force of her teacher's overhand strike and stopping the cleaving blow as if it had hit the mountain.

  Qi rippled through the air, two experts of The Art clashing in a flurry of blinding blows.

  For a moment, everyone stopped, half a dozen life and death battles across the mountain freezing in place.

  No one but the two experts even breathed.

  All watched the battle.

  Ngnandra barely moved, arm whipping about unnaturally to parry every killing strike her teacher made. But the sect of Ngnun could strike from every angle, her teacher spinning and whirling about so much that Ngnandra's feet shifted. A simple slide at first.

  Then he took steps aside and back to dodge blows he wasn't confident in deflecting.

  Swords crashed into the ground with the might of hammers, slashed through walls in explosions of dust, as the deadly back and forth battle began in earnest.

  Zhaleh knew she'd be of little help to her teacher, but she had to do something other than stand in place.

  The masked monsters watched their leader battle with reverence, too distracted to help him either.

  Zhaleh took a few breaths to steady her qi and hoped the young disciples had escaped by now.

  She attacked the pair near her before they thought to strike at her first.

  Both went different directions, clearly waiting to counter her instead of enchanted by their master's fight against her teacher.

  Zhaleh spun, deflected a sword strike, and kicked a wrist before it could get at her. Her talons stretched up high before she slammed down into a masked monster's head, smashing him to the ground hard enough for stone or bone to loudly crack. With the force of the blow she threw herself into the air, wings beating with qi to give her more height.

  For a moment she soared far out of reach, like a legendary warrior of the time of the Greys' Rampage, and beheld the devastation. The disciples' halls burned, her teacher's private building smoked ominously, and the attendant buildings scattered about were stained in flame or blood. Bodies were everywhere, both raiders and those of her sect. Red splatters and soot stained painted stone.

  Nothing would ever be the same.

  She couldn't stay in the air any longer, being far from a master that could truly fly—the dream of all birdkin, that only those following The Art could hope to achieve.

  Zhaleh knew she lacked the skill to face the Master of Masks. But she was Sironka's rival and couldn't bear to watch the teacher she considered a father stand alone. With flaps of her wings she went farther, faster, but the pull of the ground still commanded her. She raised a leg and descended.

  Ngnandra's sword locked with her teacher's.

  Two swift masked monsters bounded towards the fight, weapons cast aside to lurch forward on all fours like beasts.

  Zhaleh slammed down on the first, shattering his skull, and snapped her raised foot out at the other. Talons slashed his legs mid leaping stride, sending him off course and skitting away.

  Sword clashes boomed, the ripples of qi from the experts behind her shaking the world. Zhaleh fought, comforted by her teacher's might. She couldn't think.

  Monsters came at her as she protected her teacher's battle.

  First Rain swirled from the monster she crushed, and into a slice of Cloud's Parting. Blood flew from her sword and talons whipping about, sudden twists throwing her away from the monsters rushing in threes and fours.

  Glimpses of other disciples falling or fighting flashed through her eyes, but she couldn't help.

  Zhaleh danced, qi thrumming.

  Blows made it through her twirling defense, fists and the hafts of spears. Nothing with an edge. She took the pain and bent like the grasses of the plains in a breeze before swaying back with deadly ripostes.

  Rattling metal crashed nearby.

  Her teacher's hand grabbed Zhaleh's shoulder and threw her aside several steps. The corrupted qi of Ngnandra's sword cleaved through where her talons had been, a plume of dust obscuring the unnatural darkness of Ngnandra's empty mask. Her teacher swirled in front of her, the swipe of his foot dispersing the cloud.

  Two sword exchanges, almost faster than her eyes could track, finally shed blood in the experts' fight.

  Ngnandra staggered back, painted chest oozing a line of red. His own blood, two of his ribs visible from where her teacher slipped through. But bright heart blood didn't pour forth.

  "Will your thieving sword never stop trying to take from me!" hissed the Master of Masks, voice crawling with the sounds of a hundred different mouths.

  That voice made all the masked monsters stop.

  Their master tapped points around his wound, stopping the bleeding. Zhaleh shivered as she realized he did it with his now empty sword hand.

  That sword was buried up to the simple, tasseled hilt in her teacher's chest. The blade punched out of his back, and though it missed his spine and heart, one of his lungs was surely pierced. He stood resolute, staring down Ngnandra as the masked monsters gathered around, blocking any escape.

  Zhaleh hadn't seen it happen.

  One moment their blades met, the next—the next the man she loved as a father was impaled.

  "Let me show you theft," Ngnun said, coughing blood without his shoulders shifting, "you festering fly."

  Her teacher lurched forward, then swayed as if falling.

  His clothes rustled past Zhaleh, his movement technique a trick. His blue qi cloaked sword cleaved through masked monsters. He ran among them, cutting and striking with speed instead of precision, as if he meant to kill or cripple every corrupted monster by himself.

  "Scatter!" screamed the Master of Masks, his followers obeying before more were cut down.

  Wind buffeted by. Zhaleh's feathers bristled. Ngnandra swished by her, close enough to rip her heart out if he wanted, but the lord of all the monsters ignored her.

  He struck, arms glowing in a haze of red like curdled blood. The greatest swordsman of Ngnun chopped and stabbed, but his qi cloaked blade wavered.

  Then cracked, splintering in the grasp of Ngnandra. He swatted aside the broken bronze sword, grabbed her teacher by the neck, and lifted. A hand soaked in the blood of the First Disciple held the blade now run through Ngnun, ready to swipe it free.

  Fear, anger, and love threw Zhaleh at the monster trying to steal her world from her.

  The vile expert, wounded and holding aloft the only man capable of putting up a real fight against him, jumped straight up. She turned, sword rising to take a foot or split an artery.

  Ngnandra crashed down instantly, ground cracking beneath him and sword ripping from her teacher's chest before he threw the man away like a rag. She saw the edge glow in a curdled red haze, her knees bending and hips twisting to throw her away from the killing blow.

  Hot, corrupted qi burned through her senses. Her sword fell away, her teacher landed upright five strides away, and Zhaleh fell onto her side.

  She tried to push herself up with her sword arm. She had to get away from the crushing foot Ngnandra raised up.

  But her sword, and the arm that held it, clattered to the ground. Hot blood coursed down her side.

  The severed limb lay out of her reach.

  Zhaleh didn't understand why there was no pain.

  She could only stare at the arm that had been a part of her seconds ago, helpless before the killing stomp about to fall.

  But Ngnandra, back to her mortally wounded teacher, didn't see the movement technique that slammed a mortally wounded man against his back with the force of buffalo.

  The Master of Masks went flying towards the well, his sword clattering out of his grasp.

  Blood sputtered from her teacher's lips and out of his chest, but instead of pursuing the enemy, her teacher reached down and jabbed fingers against her wounds. Qi invaded her pathways at precise acupoints, sealing the blood flow spraying against her side. A sliver of the warmth from his Wood qi lingered, suppressing what should've been immediate agony.

  He smiled at her, the same look he gave a terrified and alone birdkin child lost on the plains without memories so many years ago.

  Then he picked up Ngnandra's fallen sword, and Zhaleh...