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Chapter Text

Let me tell you a story. It is not a story of heroism, nor even of wondrous feats. At its heart lies hubris and folly, that one person could believe that the act of creation yields its own merit. That its value is inherent and unimpeachable. That the art itself cannot corrupt.

But you are young yet, scarcely out of your first millennium. Before we begin, I must ask you…

Azazel, why are you here?

A feeble shaft of sunlight pierced the roiling clouds above, painting the hillside unfortunate shades of rust and bile. The wind had died down for the moment, taking with it the stink of the fetid marshes nearby. Ragheiyont wrinkled his nose.

“Why’s it always the Third Sphere?” he complained to no one in particular. “This place is nothing but poison and peril.”

Something like amusement danced in Atchi’s eyes. “There are other entrances to Interspace,” he said. “Some are stationary. Some move around rather a lot.”

“With the quaking of the Spheres,” added Seikhiel, “stationary is safer.”

Of course. Ragheiyont steered his brother around a creeping vine that grasped after them, reaching for their heels, seeking to ensnare them. “Where are the other ones?”

Couldn’t keep his fool mouth shut, could he? Surely nobody would hand such information to a thief—

“The First Sphere,” said Akieryon.

“Aha…” Apprehension crept up Ragheiyont’s spine.

“The Fifth Sphere.” Atchi’s eyes twinkled. “In the Tiger King’s palace.”

“They’re still at war, aren’t they?”

“And,” added Seikhiel, “there’s one in the Fomorians’ holy caverns. If you’d care to give that a try.”

Ragheiyont glanced across their assembled company. “On my own, perhaps.” He could resign himself to this unpleasant leg of the journey, but no one said he had to like it.

They gained the crest of the slope just as the clouds succeeded at smothering the sun entirely. On the next ridge, a crooked black stump jutted against the seething sky.

“There,” said Luccan. “That’s the gateway.”

Raaqiel would never say that he hesitated outside the office door. No, not precisely. He simply paused to collect himself. His right thumb brushed against the sword at his hip, his one constant companion. It gave a soft vibration in return, a hum of reassurance for a troubled mind. He was no cadet come to receive a scolding, yet somehow looking at the scrawl of a calendar on the closed door still made him feel like a boy a mere century old.

He lifted his hand to knock.

“Come in,” said the headmaster.

“Lord Sidriel.” Raaqiel strode into the office and threw himself into the nearest chair, as was his habit. Showing respect would only arouse suspicion. “You wished to see me?”

Sidriel took a long, deliberate sip of his coffee, maintaining eye contact the entire time. When he lowered the cup, he thumbed a stack of papers on the desk in front of him. “This is your doing.” Not a question. A fact.

Raaqiel slouched deeper into the chair, the leather creaking, scabbard banging against his leg. He would not confess so easily, as the headmaster well knew. “What is my misdeed this time?” He knew. Without even seeing the papers, he knew.

Sidriel pressed fingertips against his temples as though staving off a headache. “Raaqiel, please. You’ve commanded the Third Sword for over three centuries. Isn’t it time you put your childhood feud to rest?”

Interesting. Sidriel thought his motivation lay purely in vexing Niseriel. Not that thwarting his old nemesis was not its own reward, of course. Raaqiel bit back a smile. “Sir?” he prompted, giving a hint of a frown.

Sidriel’s irritation progressed from temple-press to single-handed forehead squeeze. “You’ve sent Seikhiel, a member of the Fifth Sword, out on an unspecified—”

“Necessary,” Raaqiel interjected.

“—mission to an undisclosed location.” Sidriel lowered his hand, revealing a bone-weary sort of exasperation. “And you forged my signature to approve it.”

“Yes, sir.” Some lies just weren’t worth the effort.

“Niseriel is furious, and rightly so.” Sidriel’s eyes narrowed a fraction, as though he understood just how Niseriel’s impotent rage warmed Raaqiel’s cold little heart. “Couldn’t you have sent one of your own soldiers?”

“No one else possessed Seikhiel’s unique qualifications.” Of volunteering for it. Of deciding to go, proper channels be damned.

“He is not yours to command.”

“Of course not, sir.” As though Raaqiel would ever presume to order Seikhiel to do anything. He almost laughed at the thought.

Sidriel sighed that long, resigned sigh that seemed to characterize the very music of his soul. He steepled his fingertips before him. “Raaqiel,” he said, pronouncing each syllable with great care. “Where. Is. Seikhiel?”

Raaqiel gave half a shrug. When Sidriel shifted as though to stand, he offered the only honest answer he had: “I do not know, sir.”

Ragheiyont bounded ahead to inspect the stump. It split and twisted in several directions, as though a great blast had splintered it long ago. Tharaiyelagh hung back, stuck close to Lord Tempest’s side. Whatever power had shattered that tortured trunk could yet linger.

“There’s an inscription!” Ragheiyont called out. “I… can’t read it.” He fingered the hilt of his cursed dagger.

“Let me see—” Seikhiel approached too quickly, stepped too close. Ragheiyont shifted his wings at the wrong moment. Seikhiel ducked as Ragheiyont shuffled his feet. They bumped against one another, and Ragheiyont swayed.

Put up one hand to steady himself.

Touched the blackened stump.

A jolt of energy hurled him backward. He slammed against Seikhiel, and both of them tumbled in a heap to the unforgiving hillside. Complaining loudly, Ragheiyont struggled to free himself.

“‘If you would cross the threshold into Interspace,'” Prince Van-Dal translated, careful not to touch the stump even as he leaned near enough to see the inscription, “‘take pains to carry… completion in your…'” Stepping back, he shook his head. “That could say ‘pocket’ or ‘basket’. The meaning has drifted.”

Ragheiyont bounced back, bounded to Van-Dal’s side. “So it’s a riddle. How d’ya carry completion?”

“I’m not sure we can all cross at once,” Akieryon said. “It doesn’t seem large enough.”

Szearbhyn shrugged. “We could try.”

Frowning, Van-Dal turned and beckoned to Seikhiel. “This symbol here. It could indicate a fraction? Or… an enclosure?” He flicked his claws against his chin and pursed his lips.

Ragheiyont crowded the two of them as they studied the inscription. Seikhiel nudged him, and he nudged back. Tharaiyelagh opened his mouth to chide his brother, but then Seikhiel took a half step back.

“It looks like we won’t be able to see what the gh’yecei points indicate until we open it.”

“That, or it’s weathered off,” Van-Dal grumbled. Nonetheless, he held one hand over the inscription. A soft hum vibrated beneath his palm, the sound of it almost lost in the wind. The stump shuddered and creaked. Impossibly, it twisted more. “Oh, it lines up as—”

A shockwave burst from the heart of the stump, hurling the assembled company to the ground. Beside Tharaiyelagh, Lord Tempest spat a curse into the dust. Tharaiyelagh lifted his head and squinted up the slope. The stump had settled back into its original position.

Ragheiyont, Van-Dal, and Seikhiel were gone.

“Rahi!” Tharaiyelagh scrambled to his feet and charged back up the slope. His heart hammered in his chest, and his mind reeled. His brother was gone. After all this time, after their chance reunion, just when they had an opportunity to overcome their estrangement…

A hand on his collar snatched him back before he could blindly reach for the inscription. “Calm down.” Tempest gave him a little shake, then set him back on his heels. “It’s a gate, remember? We just have to open it again.”

He lifted his hand toward the stump.

Raaqiel stood just outside the open door, his gaze lingering on the solitary figure bent over a stack of papers. Feriel’s pen scratched with sure, short strokes. Merciless. Raaqiel’s lips twisted in half a smile.

“Grading homework for him again?”

Feriel’s head snapped up, and the pen clattered from his fingertips. Raw panic flashed across his face for an instant, replaced just as quickly with annoyance. “Raaqiel,” he said, exaggerating his tone of forced patience, “it’s rude to startle people.”

Raaqiel shrugged. “It’s also rude to rat me out to Lord Sidriel.” Feriel looked positively haggard, and Raaqiel instantly regretted teasing him. Until he spoke.

“If you think Lord Sidriel needs my help uncovering your latest bad behavior, you’re not half as smart as you think you are.”

Raaqiel leaned against the door frame. “I suppose not,” he conceded, his eyes following Feriel’s hand as he picked up his pen and resumed his work. Tension filled the air between them, almost stifling him. He sighed. “Would you like a hand with those?”

Feriel’s head snapped up again, and a hunted look flashed through his eyes before he could compose his features. “Are you out of your mind?” he hissed through his teeth, his gaze darting to the corridor behind Raaqiel. “Do you know what he’d do if he saw your handwriting on even one of these papers?”

“Fail the whole class?”

Without comment, Feriel bent over his task again. Raaqiel watched in silence for a minute or two, his chest aching at the sight of his old friend worn down to a mere shell of his former self. Was this the result of Seikhiel’s absence? Or did something else trouble Feriel?

With a start, Raaqiel realized that the two of them had hardly spoken in years. Certainly not ever of anything but work.

“Feriel,” he said softly, “are we still friends?”

Feriel’s pen stilled on the page. He sat motionless for a moment, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched, as though gathering himself for a reply. Raaqiel’s throat tightened, and the ache in his chest swelled. Had he truly not noticed the growing distance between them?

Feriel lifted his head, and he summoned a wan smile. “Raaqiel,” he chided, “you ought to know better than that.”

“That I can’t get rid of you?” Raaqiel prompted, tamping down the hope rising within him.

“Of course not.” Feriel snatched a pencil from the desk and threw it at him. “Now go away and let me do my work.”

Heartened, but still worrying for Feriel’s health, Raaqiel backed away from the door.

He would obey. For now.

“Of course it only allows three to pass at once,” Atchi said. “Thrice three, as Mercy said. Completion, made pocket-sized.”

Szearbhyn fixed him with a scowl blacker than the wretched stump. “You might have mentioned before it took my brother.”

“Oh, yes, I might have.” Atchi’s tail twitched, and his eyes sparked mischief. “But I didn’t.”

Luccan stepped between them before Szearbhyn could bare teeth at Atchi. “We can argue about this later,” he said. “Right now, we need to get to Bel.”

Szearbhyn glared in silence, his expression darkening to match the restless sky when Atchi chuckled.

“Such fine parenting skills. It’s for the best that you’ve adopted another.”

“Don’t suggest—”

“Not you,” Atchi interrupted, casting a look of scorn toward the Soul-Stealer. Gauging. Testing the edges of his ill temper. His ears pricked forward at deadly attention, and a tremor of excitement stirred his silvery tail, with good reason. Soul eaters were rare enough, and this one in particular had earned quite the reputation for his intemperate nature. Of course Atchi could not resist the chance to needle him. No fox would. “Tell me,” he continued, turning a broad grin on Luccan, “does the poor kit know?”

“Open the gate, Atchi,” Luccan said, keeping his voice pitched low, keeping the irritation from showing in the set of his ears.

Atchi studied him, unblinking. Another tremor ran down his tail, and Luccan tensed. He hated to agree with Szearbhyn, strictly on principle, but the others could have encountered trouble while the three of them dallied at the doorway. Who could even imagine what trouble Ragheiyont might get himself into in Interspace? Seikhiel would be no help in that regard. Indeed, Seikhiel was as likely as not to make himself the cause of trouble.

Atchi threw back his head and laughed.

“You should see your faces,” he said, grinning into the rising storm of Luccan’s ire. Without looking, he waggled his fingers over the inscription on the blasted stump. The letters began to emit a faint glow. “Don’t you trust your loved ones to survive five minutes without you?”

“Of course I do,” grumbled Szearbhyn, but he sounded unconvinced. Luccan drew a steadying breath. Of course Ragheiyont was competent, despite his youth. Of course he had survived a century alone, in the face of cruel odds. Still, he had no idea how to be a dragon, and someone had to teach him. He needed Luccan.

The blackened bark peeled open in a sideways scream, a sensation like falling, a sick feeling that ran marrow-deep. A flash of light left Luccan blinded, falling, weightless. He tried to call out to his companions, but his voice had withered in his throat. The wind died away to a distant memory. Something unpleasant squished underfoot.

Luccan blinked his eyes hard to clear his vision. The spots that hung behind his eyelids cleared away, but still he saw nothing beyond a vague grayness. Reflexively, he reached for Warbringer. The cool, smooth metal of the guard reassured him. He decided to test his voice.

“Akieryon!”

Szearbhyn’s shout came too close, and Luccan ducked away from the sound, his ears flattening against the sharpness of it. He flinched Warbringer loose in the scabbard, and the usual rumble of pleasure coiled up his arm, tempting him.

“Akieryon?”

“Silence, you fool,” growled Atchi, all levity gone from his voice. He whispered a word in Old Dragonish, and the air stirred, pushing back the veil of gray. The fog. It left them feeling damp and cold. Luccan blinked and peered around them.

They were alone.

Chapter Text

I suppose the simplest explanation is that I have a peculiar sentiment for captive creatures. I spent my youth in the company of the Angel of the Void.

Apollyon.

You must remember him, the way he wore his chains with quiet dignity, the way he yearned for travel…

I was a cadet, and I…

I took my sword and I struck him down.

Ragheiyont skimmed along the cliff faces, his quick gaze alert for any sign of the others. The gateway had helpfully deposited the three of them midair in a ravine of sorts. Seikhiel and Van-Dal now stood on the ground below while Ragheiyont circled above. Their voices drifted up to him.

“Perhaps they could not open the gate.”

“No,” Seikhiel said, his voice firm. “Atchi can open it.”

“It’s been too long already.” As he banked around again, Ragheiyont saw Van-Dal’s face tilted upward, up toward the dense canopy of vines that grew across the top of the ravine, blotting out the sun, cutting off escape. “We must consider that the gate sends travelers to random locations. We may not see the others again until we arrive at our destination.” Through the prince’s clipped words, Ragheiyont heard an undercurrent of anxiety.

“Then we must believe them all capable.”

“I gave my word.” To protect Tharaiyelagh. That much need not be said. Irritation bubbled up after concern, and Van-Dal called upward, “Ragheiyont, come down and join us.”

Ragheiyont balked. It ill suited his temperament to obey. Also, the ravine walls had not yet given up their secrets. Here, in the place where he circled, he had space enough to do so. In either direction, the cliffs soon angled tightly in. Walking along the ravine floor would serve better than flight. His blood itched. What wonders did this world conceal?

“Please,” added Seikhiel.

With a sigh, Ragheiyont tucked his wings and dipped downward. He wanted Van-Dal to be wrong. He wanted his brother and Luccan to catch up to them. A dull ache in his chest gave traitorous agreement to Van-Dal’s words. When Ragheiyont’s landing kicked up fine dust from the ravine floor, Seikhiel gave him a squint of annoyance, and Van-Dal closed his eyes as though searching for patience. Ragheiyont grinned at them.

“We got a plan?”

Van-Dal pointedly fastened a mask across the lower half of his face. “You’re not much like your brother, are you?”

“Ah… I wouldn’t know.” Trying to hide how the remark stung, how it prodded at the guilt he carried, Ragheiyont forced a careless shrug. “We haven’t seen much of each other in about three decades.”

Van-Dal’s long, rope-like tail lashed, betraying his thoughts before he uttered them. “He was a child,” the prince growled. “You left him on his own?”

Apparently Tharaiyelagh spoke freely of the past. Every instinct in Ragheiyont’s body told him to step back, to put distance between himself and this angry assassin. He held his ground. “You woulda done the same, jo.”

“You—”

“Gentlemen.” Seikhiel stepped between them, giving each a warning glance. “We have more pressing matters to deal with.”

“He called me—”

“I know what he said,” Seikhiel interrupted, his tone sharp, what Luccan called schoolteacher voice. “Indulge me, Your Highness. And you,” he said, just as Ragheiyont had begun to feel a premature sense of relief. “Govern your tongue.”

Ragheiyont snorted. “Ain’t never learned how.”

“We are not here to nest-sit a feral!” snapped Van-Dal. To his credit, regret flashed in his eyes the moment he said it, but already anger and resentment boiled in Ragheiyont’s blood.

“I’m civilized enough! Maybe not for your sort, but—”

A long, high shriek cut off his rebuttal, echoing off the stone walls of the ravine, chilling their heated tempers. Ragheiyont stood frozen for only a second, guessing at the size of a creature that could make such a noise, assessing the direction of its origin.

“Running!” he declared, and he bolted in the opposite direction, trusting the other two to catch up. They were supposed to be the best at what they did, after all.

Lungs and limbs burning with the effort, Ragheiyont pelted down the twisting ravine. Van-Dal charged along at his heels. “Faster!” called Seikhiel from the rear, but the ravine narrowed, and soon Ragheiyont scraped his shoulders on the stone walls. What if it came to a dead end? What if the creature that shrieked and struggled through the narrow confines of the ravine cornered them, caught them…

An answering scream resounded ahead of them.

Before Ragheiyont’s heart had leapt in alarm, the passage broadened, and he glimpsed great feathers and terrible, slashing talons. He threw himself to the ground and slid on his hip beneath the creature. In a moment, he bounced up again, his wings stretching to propel him clear of danger. He twisted in midair, searching for surer escape. A ledge jutted just above. He had almost reached it when his conscience caught at him, slowing his ascent. Had he really just abandoned his companions?

“Go!” yelled Van-Dal from below. Ragheiyont glanced back, but he could make little sense of the thrashing limbs and flying feathers. He alighted on the ledge, and he crouched low, where he could watch unnoticed.

Two giant flightless birds screamed and struck at each other. One had not fully emerged from the narrowest part of the passage. The other danced from foot to foot, its stubby wings raised in threat. Though they had Van-Dal and Seikhiel caught between them, the birds scarcely seemed to care. The nearer bird reared back to wield its heavy bill like a hammer, and Seikhiel shoved Van-Dal underneath the creature’s field of vision. The assassin prince whirled, drawing his sword now that he had room to move.

“Up here!” Ragheiyont called. Van-Dal glanced up, met his gaze, and gave a brief nod. Then he started back toward Seikhiel, who had been obscured entirely by the thrashing wall of feathers and fury.

A blinding white light flared on the ravine floor. Screaming in pain and alarm, the giant birds fell back a step or two, just enough for Seikhiel to dart past, the light fading from the palm of his hand. “Go!” he yelled, unfurling his gleaming white-gold wings where a moment ago there had been none. Ragheiyont’s heart lurched, and an electric thrill ran through his veins. He desperately wanted a taste of that skill.

Van-Dal slammed his sword home into its scabbard as he gained the ledge. Immediately, he turned back, reaching a hand toward Seikhiel. Two different kinds of soldier, equally unwilling to leave a man behind. Puzzling.

Seikhiel’s fingers stretched upward, almost reaching the ledge, almost reaching Van-Dal’s waiting grasp, when his flight faltered. The nearer bird struck at him with beak and talons, tearing at his wings. Feathers filled the air, a swirl of soft white-gold. Van-Dal surged forward, caught Seikhiel’s hand before he could withdraw it in pain or shock. Ragheiyont glimpsed the angel’s grimace of pain before he began to sink out of sight, dragging Van-Dal with him.

Leaving Ragheiyont alone.

“No!” Ragheiyont threw himself at Van-Dal’s ankles. Straining every muscle, he pulled backward. The two dragons beat their wings against the pull of the raging bird creature. Seikhiel groaned in pain. Then, with a rush, he surged up over the lip of the ledge. The three of them landed in a heap.

“What are those awful things?” Ragheiyont panted. Below, the bird shrieked and paced.

“Terror birds.” Seikhiel winced as Van-Dal pushed him aside and sat up. “Unfortunately well named.”

“Don’t.” Van-Dal caught at Seikhiel’s wings just as they began to shimmer out of view again. Ragheiyont sat and watched in awkward silence as the assassin prince applied a salve and two types of healing magics to the angel’s wounds. The feathers looked soft. Were they? Perhaps he could ask later.

His attention soon strayed. One of the terror birds retreated, clearly unwilling to battle for territory or tasty little dragons or whatever. The other called and hissed and paced beneath the ledge. Ragheiyont wondered how far Seikhiel could fly with so many feathers torn from his wings. Could he and Van-Dal manage to carry him? Would they have to? How heavy was an angel?

A faint hum of magic dragged his attention away from the uncomfortable spectacle before him. Something resonated off of Van-Dal’s spells. Something nearby…

Before he had quite agreed with himself to do it, Ragheiyont had climbed to his feet and begun running his hands over the sheer cliff face. The resonance heightened to a buzz, echoing the itch in his blood. Something was hidden here. Something interesting. Did he need it? Did his sickness crave it?

He touched the cliff wall in just the right place, and the glamoury fell away before his eyes. A fissure of darkness, just large enough to serve as a doorway, enticed him. A net of magic barred his path.

“Heyo,” Ragheiyont called to the others. “I think I found our way out.” Wardbreaker hummed with anticipation as he drew the hungry little blade. One quick cut and—

“RAYA, NO!“

Van-Dal’s warning reached him just as the dagger struck against the threads of magic. It caught against the curious resonance. It stuck.

The world shattered.

Pain exploded in Ragheiyont’s head and up his arm. He tasted blood, choked on it, and fell backward into oblivion.

A dense, warm mist gathered all around them, too thick to part, almost too thick to breathe. They had shuffled along at a tentative pace for maybe half an hour, listening to silence, wondering when the earth might fall away beneath their feet. It seemed a slight incline, though none of them mentioned it. Far, far away, something howled as though in agony. Shivering, Akieryon edged closer beside Tempest. This was wild, uncharted territory, fragments of broken Spheres drifting in the gaps between worlds. He had mentioned last night that his training never covered how to survive Interspace. He would be skittish here.

“Should we…” Tharaiyelagh cleared his throat and managed to raise his voice above a whisper. “Should we go see if someone needs help?”

Tempest shook his head, though none of them could see it. “If that was a person, I doubt we’ll ever find them. We press on.”

They trudged through the fog. Akieryon trembled like a fawn and Tharaiyelagh made a noise suspiciously like a sniffle, and Tempest rapidly tired of feeling responsible for the both of them. He knew Akieryon could look after himself, no matter how anxious he might be, and yet somehow…

“Is… is the ground getting hotter?”

The fact that all of Tharaiyelagh’s confidence seemed to have vanished with their departure from Seyzharel did nothing to ease Tempest’s irritation. He crouched, and he placed one hand in the ground. The dust felt finer than silt, and when he lifted a bit of it near enough to see, it looked as gray as the fog. Tempest exhaled a noisy huff of air through his nose.

“Yes,” he said. He sat down at once and considered whether he had led them off course. He had aimed them at the largest source of magic he could sense, assuming that it would lead them to Bel’s prison. “It’s possible we may be heading toward a volcano.”

Tharaiyelagh crouched beside him. “What’s a volcano?”

With a groan, Tempest threw himself back onto the powdery ground.

Ragheiyont heard someone calling his name, but distantly, as though across a deep chasm. He tried to shake his head, to dismiss it, but somehow he had managed to get his skull filled with lead. That, or he had stuck his horns into the floor. He tried to speak, to tell the insistent voice to shut up and let him sleep. He only managed a weak groan.

“He’s coming around.”

Was he? Ragheiyont fumbled for memories of the last few moments before… before he had blacked out? Some sort of magical barrier. Something his Wardbreaker couldn’t cut.

Wardbreaker! His eyes flew open, and he struggled to focus on the canopy of vines overhead. “My… can’t feel… why?”

Can’t put words in the correct order, either. Immediately, two faces leaned over him, and his wobbly vision again failed to focus.

“It’s probably for the best you can’t feel your hand,” said Van-Dal ominously.

No, no, he absolutely could feel a throbbing ache radiating from his fingertips up toward his shoulder. Ragheiyont swallowed around the dryness in his mouth, and he tried again. “Wa… blade?” he slurred. The prince and the angel exchanged a look that set alarms jangling in the back of Ragheiyont’s impaired brain.

“I’m sorry,” Seikhiel said, looking as though someone had died.

“It’s broken.”

For a moment, the word failed to register. How could Wardbreaker break? He fed it on his own blood. He nurtured it and indulged it.

He treated it as he had his own brother.

“That’s not all.” Seikhiel eased a hand behind Ragheiyont’s head and held a canteen to his lips. “Drink slowly,” he cautioned. “We thought we’d lost you.”

“Unf,” Ragheiyont replied around a mouthful of water. It brought everything into sharper focus. He swallowed with care, and he squinted at the worried faces that hovered over him. “Why?”

Van-Dal looked away, picked up a little bundle of cloth. “It seems you’re pretty solidly bonded with that dagger of yours.” He glanced down. At Ragheiyont’s arm.

Ragheiyont tried to flex his fingers, but somehow they refused to respond. He strained his muscles, lifting his head enough to see. From elbow to fingertips, his arm was swathed in bandages.

“It… cut me?” That didn’t sound right.

“More like your skin shattered with the blade.” Seikhiel lifted one hand, showing his own blistered fingertips. “The wound is resistant to healing magics.”

“My guess is,” added Van-Dal, “that the injury won’t heal until this is repaired.” He placed the cloth packet on Ragheiyont’s chest, and he knew it at once. The thing put up a feeble mewling, faint, almost dead, but struggling yet for survival.

“Wardbreaker,” he murmured, closing his good hand over it. His eyelids drifted downward. “I guess,” he said to the distant sky, “we’d better hurry up and find that smith, yeah?”

Seikhiel and Van-Dal exchanged a worried look.

Chapter Text

Interesting.

I had no idea the Formed Ones could die.

For my part, I suppose I could die. Theoretically. Ideas can die, and yet not die. Not here, though. This tree, my prison, sustains my life indefinitely. I was placed here quite on purpose. My betrayer knew better than to try to fight me.

You’ve made me curious, my young friend. With Apollyon gone, who maintains the Void? Who keeps the souls where they belong?

“What are you doing?”

Szearbhyn picked himself up out of the mud and brushed ineffectually at the smear of green muck in his sleeve. “I’m finding my brother,” he snapped. “Obviously.”

“Are you really?” Atchi raked his gaze over Szearbhyn’s ruined clothes. “It looks like you’re trying to find the lowest point in the swamp.”

With a low growl, Szearbhyn sprang into the air again. The mist swirled with the smoke that seemed to enwrap his wings, and for a moment it looked as though he might make some progress. Then the nearest cypress reached its branches out and lashed him back out of the sky. He splashed down with a dense plop. Luccan sighed.

“We’re not making any progress this way.” Grimacing in distaste, he reached down and hauled Szearbhyn out of the muck. “Your brother is a sensible person?”

Szearbhyn nodded.

“Then he will be on his way to Bel’s prison.” Luccan gave him a little shake before releasing him. “I suggest we do the same.” He wiped the sludge from his hand. “Atchi?”

“This way.” Without a backward glance, Atchi veered off to the left. Luccan stomped after him, trying in vain to find dry ground, but Szearbhyn balked.

“How can you know that?”

Atchi stopped on a muddy knoll that nudged its way out of the swamp sludge. He rolled his head to one side, and his ears flicked. “Because,” he said with exaggerated patience that spoke of underlying peril, “this is the only path that will not devour us.”

That sounded charming. Luccan thumbed the hilt of Warbringer and shook some murky green tendrils from one foot. The sooner they were free of this swamp, the happier he would feel.

Seikhiel and Van-Dal stood against the cliff wall, talking in low tones, and Ragheiyont decided not to waste his energy eavesdropping. He sat at the edge of the ledge, kicking his feet in the empty air while the terror bird grumbled in frustration below. Van-Dal had fashioned him a sling to hold his injured arm close against his chest, and it throbbed painfully. Soon they would have to move on. Soon he would need blood.

His eyes slid closed, and before he had quite meant to, he let his mind wander back to the problem of the barrier. It hummed away at the fringes of his awareness, tantalizing him. He had never before encountered such an obstacle. If he could not best it, surely he would die.

The other two continued their conversation, quite oblivious to the heat rising in Ragheiyont’s blood. As his awareness threaded deeper into the barrier, he no longer heard their voices. They existed as mere energy in the periphery of his focus.

Seikhiel shifted his weight, and the barrier pulsed in response. Ragheiyont stumbled to his feet and lurched unseeing across the short distance to the angel. The fog in his head cleared a little, enough for him to register Seikhiel’s surprise.

“What—”

“Shh.” Ragheiyont pushed him closer to the barrier. “Good lockpicks don’t talk.”

Ragheiyont worked quickly, his hand still resting on Seikhiel’s shoulder as he drew off a little of his bright golden energy. The barrier shuddered as he threaded it between the fine filaments of magic. Then, without so much as a whimper, it yielded.

“Got it!” Ragheiyont crowed. He pulled Seikhiel through into darkness, and Van-Dal followed at their heels.

The passage beyond felt cool and dry. A light flared from behind, and Ragheiyont glanced over his shoulder. Van-Dal held one hand up.  A tiny globe of light hovered above his fingers, illuminating the narrow passage for a few paces ahead. Ragheiyont nodded. For himself, he would have to conserve his magic until he could feed.

“You mean blood.”

“Well, yeah, of course,” Ragheiyont said, “but I dunno where I’ll get any good stuff ’round here, and…” And when had he started voicing his thoughts? “Ah…” His cheeks warmed despite the cool air. “Am I babbling?”

“A little bit.” Seikhiel sounded amused. “Don’t worry about it. If you’re babbling, we know you’re not going into shock.”

Ragheiyont flexed his fingers inside the bandages. A fresh wave of pain shot up his arm, and he forced a laugh. “Sure, jo. A great loss, right?”

Behind him, Van-Dal made a soft sound of displeasure. Ragheiyont turned a lopsided grin on Seikhiel. “Say, jo, when did I start to hallucinate?”

Seikhiel stopped and turned him toward Van-Dal’s light, gripping his chin and tilting his face this way and that. “Why do you say that?” he demanded, his voice terse. His fingertips found Ragheiyont’s pulse, and he frowned.

“Uh… because I annoyed him by being mean about me.” Ragheiyont rolled his eyes toward Van-Dal, who scowled at them both.

A flicker of horror crossed Seikhiel’s face. “Do you truly not know the value of your own life?”

“Well, I think my life is pretty valuable, but I never expect anyone else to agree.”

“Seyzharel dragons are almost extinct,” Van-Dal said, his tone gathering chill as he brushed past them. “Surely even you know that.” He held the light high, examining the cavern ahead.

The remark stung a little, perhaps more than it might have before Luccan had explained to him that young dragons ought to be raised in large family groups. Ragheiyont tried to swallow the unexpected ache in his chest, but it only came back as bitterness. “Yeah, that’s the world I have to live in, jo. You just visit.”

“Don’t call me that,” Van-Dal growled. He had stopped walking, and the tense set of his wings just showed by the dim light he held.

Ragheiyont considered arguing, mostly out of petulance. How much would he have to rely on his two companions? “I’ll… try,” he conceded instead. He would certainly slip up, just as he did with Luccan.

“Steady there.”

Ragheiyont hadn’t noticed that he swayed until Seikhiel’s arm steadied him. He blinked into the darkness, considering. Had he expended too much energy in opening the barrier? His hand throbbed, and he found it difficult to think.

“You need rest.” Seikhiel looked past him, to Van-Dal, who nodded. The three of them sat down, and Ragheiyont eased back against the cool stone wall of the cavern.

He wondered that they had not yet grown impatient with him.

The ground was definitely growing hotter. Tharaiyelagh tested it with his toes as Akieryon distributed rations to all of them. Of course Thrin had seen them provided with the very best foodstuffs that would keep well in a travel pack, but still Tharaiyelagh longed for fresh pastry and a good cup of blood.

Well. He had gone and gotten himself spoiled, hadn’t he?

A shoulder bumped against his own, and Tharaiyelagh blinked in surprise at his younger prince. “You’re smiling,” Lord Tempest said, and Tharaiyelagh could almost swear that something amused him.

“I suppose I am.” Blushing, Tharaiyelagh focused on the bread in his hand. “This is… a lot closer to what I’d expected my life to be like. When I was younger. And stupid.”

“Before Baleirithys, you mean.”

The heat in Tharaiyelagh’s face rose faster than the heat beneath their feet. “Yes.”

Lord Tempest’s shoulder bumped against him again. “I refuse to believe that you were ever stupid.”

“I got caught,” Tharaiyelagh objected. “Thrice. That’s pretty stupid, you know.”

“No. It just wasn’t the work you were suited to do.” With that, Tempest drifted away into the thick mist to murmur a few words to Akieryon. Tharaiyelagh tried to digest the comment, but he found it as unappetizing as the bread in his hand.

He thought of his new life at Castle Seyzharel. He thought of all the gentle encouragement he had received there, of how everyone had celebrated with him when he had excelled. He thought of late nights and early mornings and dusty books too heavy to hold. Of absent caresses and soft scent marks on his cheek. His fingertips strayed to his shoulder, to the bite mark there, fresh, yet already almost healed. It hummed with a subtle magic, even at so great a distance as this.

I only want to make you proud of me.

For a wildly fanciful moment, Tharaiyelagh imagined that he could hear a reply.

Whyever would you think I wasn’t?

Baleirithys blinked, and the audience chamber came into sharper focus. He shouldn’t be worrying about Tharaiyelagh. He had too much work to do here and now.

Ragheiyont slept with his limbs all curled in against his body, his wings shielding him, hiding him. He might have been an infant yet in its egg membrane, if not for the size of him. Was he truly at ease in this unknown place, or did the injury to his arm exhaust him so much already?

“He needs to feed,” Van-Dal said to Seikhiel, keeping his voice pitched low, careful not to wake the subject of their conversation.

“Sooner rather than later.” The low light showed a grim expression on Seikhiel’s face. “His kind are prone to anemia, aren’t they?”

“He’s going to be very ill.” They both avoided stating the obvious, that Ragheiyont would die if the two of them did not strive to sustain him. An odd little ache settled in Van-Dal’s chest, and when he examined his thoughts on the matter, he found himself shying from the expectation of Tharaiyelagh’s grief. No. He had to keep the brash young thief alive. “I have secrets in my blood that I must not share.” To do so would require permission from his king, permission he could not secure. “I expect—”

“We keep him alive,” Seikhiel interrupted, his tone firm. “I defied orders to be here. I did it because I could not stand by a second time while Seyzharel fell. Even this one life could be the difference between wasting my effort and…” His words trailed away into the dark, and his gaze had gone unfocused, his thoughts turned inward. Van-Dal knew that look from the haunted stares of soldiers who had endured nightmares beyond reckoning.

“Are you willing to feed him, then?” he prompted softly.

Seikhiel looked down at the sleeping thief. “It’s… the right thing to do,” he said with the gravity of someone who had sometimes failed to make the right choice.

Van-Dal nodded. “Given your age,” he said, “it ought to sustain him better anyway.”

Shifting his weight, Seikhiel glanced away. “Actually, my age presents a danger to him.” Something bitter and angry twitched the corners of his mouth downward. “If word gets back to Heaven that he has consumed my blood, no one will be able to protect our young Kleptomancer.”

“Then we tell no one.” Van-Dal offered his hand, a pact of secrecy. Seikhiel clasped it with a grip firmed by desperation, then turned away to watch over Ragheiyont.

Van-Dal studied him through the darkness, wondering what could frighten the most fearsome warrior in Heaven.

Chapter Text

Being Fallen, I am not privy to that information. I imagine that a share of the work falls to my father, but I know he can only do so much to wrangle souls. He keeps watch over the moment of crossing. His power is not limitless.

I wonder whether I have done more harm than good.

But I believe you promised a story, Master Bel.

Akieryon wanted to move faster.

They walked at a cautious pace, mindful of the dense fog, careful of the hot sand beneath their feet. Whenever Tharaiyelagh’s endurance flagged, Tempest called a halt. Akieryon chafed at every delay, and there were many. As secure as he always felt at Tempest’s side, he longed to reunite with his brother, and he dreaded what might befall any of their company.

Even Seikhiel.

A deeper gloom gathered, suggesting nightfall, and Tempest ceased their progress yet again. Grinding his teeth, Akieryon divided their provisions for a cheerless meal. Tharaiyelagh huddled over his portion like a wary beast. Fresh resentment welled up within Akieryon, and he turned away, ashamed. If their number had to be divided by threes, why could he not share this journey with Szearbhyn rather than Tharaiyelagh?

As though chastised by Akieryon’s ungracious thoughts, Tharaiyelagh pulled his knees up to his thin chest and wrapped his arms around his shins. Here was a creature of gilded halls and velvet cushions. What was he even doing here?

Tharaiyelagh caught the direction of Akieryon’s stare, and he shrank in on himself further. Tempest sat between them, almost pointedly, as one might do to separate quarreling children. Akieryon nibbled a bit of bread and struggled to dismiss an irrational feeling of guilt. He had given no voice to his uncharitable thoughts.

“I wonder how much father we must travel.”

Tharaiyelagh had spoken quietly, his words directed down into his own food, but Akieryon tensed nonetheless. He and Tempest were both soldiers, after a fashion. They would carry on for as long as necessary. This soft courtier? Perhaps they would have to carry him.

Tempest sighed. “I wish I had a guess.” He eyed his own food with disinterest, and Akieryon considered offering him blood. He decided against it, for likely they would all need to keep their strength. Even a Demonslayer gone astray.

The ground beneath them gave a restless shiver. Tharaiyelagh darted a wild-eyed glance at his two companions. For a moment, Akieryon envied his fear. Faced with the possible end of the world, he felt only resignation.

Sleep clung close, like the smoke of the sourwood reeds. It thickened his brain and numbed his reflexes. Did someone call for him? Perhaps he mumbled an attempt at a reply before he settled deeper into the woolly recesses of his mind.

“Ragheiyont!”

Yes, fine, someone definitely called to him, but he could not persuade his eyes to open. A strong hand gripped him by the back of the neck, forcing him slightly upward, but he lacked the will to fight it. The will, or the strength?

Were they not the same?

Something warm pressed against his mouth, and a heady tang filled his nostrils and slicked his lips. Blood. Tentatively, he pressed his tongue forward between his fangs.

A jolt like lightning ran right up his taste buds and into his brain. It fizzed and crackled there, awakening his senses before his sluggish brain could shake off the shrouds of sleep. He drank deeply, hunger welling up hotter and fiercer than he could control, the sickness in his veins howling for the unknown power that danced across his tongue.

“Enough.” Gentle but firm, a hand pushed at his forehead. “Leave some for me.”

Mewling like a kit, Ragheiyont clung to the arm he held to his mouth, fighting for another moment, for just one more taste.

…The arm?

The…

Arm?

His eyes snapped open at last. Van-Dal’s glowing sphere illuminated the scene all too clearly. Blushing with newfound might, Ragheiyont released his grip on Seikhiel’s arm and huddled away from him. Shame welled up within him, hotter than his hunger, and he watched with wide eyes as Seikhiel passed a hand over the wound on his arm. It closed up, and Ragheiyont almost sobbed aloud for longing. How would he live without another taste? Not from the flesh, of course, that was obscene—

A sharp tug jolted him free of his thoughts. He yelped a protest even as he looked down at his injured arm. Van-Dal was securing a band just above his elbow.

“I can’t tighten this too much,” he said, meaning the knots his fingers twisted in the cord. His voice carried no emotion, only facts, as though he had not just witnessed a spectacle that bordered on pornographic. “If I stop the blood flow altogether, your cursed wound will surely migrate higher. This way, perhaps, we can slow the bleeding a bit.”

Shamefaced again, Ragheiyont nodded. While he had slept, his bandages had soaked through with blood. Seikhiel’s lewd offer had probably saved his life.

“Thanks,” he ventured, and amazed himself at the steadiness of his own voice. Angel blood. He had consumed angel blood. The power of it hummed within him, filling him with a foreign kind of strength. He wanted to leap to his feet and run ahead, into the dark, heedless of hidden perils. He glanced down at his arm, and he knew he would not. How could he waste the gift Seikhiel had given him?

Directly from the flesh.

A fresh blush warmed his face. Ragheiyont had never fed from the flesh before. When would he have had opportunity? He was a solitary thief, a loner, and only lovers engaged in so intimate an act. He swallowed as though he could drive the taste from his mouth, and he stole a glance at Seikhiel. Unconcerned, the angel leaned against the wall, rummaging through the bag that contained their medical supplies.

Too soon, the bandages would run out.

“Hold still.” Van-Dal gave another sharp tug, sending a fresh stab of pain up Ragheiyont’s arm.

“Sorry,” Ragheiyont mumbled, turning his attention to the clean gauze Van-Dal tied about his arm. Both of his unwilling companions took his wellbeing into their hands. Why? He was nothing to them. Just a noisy young dragon with a gift for larceny.

Perhaps he should say something.

“Does he…” Ragheiyont darted another glance at Seikhiel, who roundly ignored them both. “Does he understand what he did?”

Van-Dal smothered a laugh. Ragheiyont fought not to giggle along, and he failed spectacularly.

Perhaps they could get along after all.

The swamp seethed with life. The mossy old cypress boughs cast long shadows over the mud and muck. Here and there, the surface of the water would ripple with the movement of… something. Szearbhyn preferred not to think about it.

He tried to imagine Akieryon slogging through muck and mire, somewhere nearby, perhaps just out of earshot. The idea made him want to shout, to unfurl his smoky wings once more and fly in a broad circle around his flightless companions. He still had the welts from his last attempt. As much as he hated the squelchy drudgery of it, wading onward was their best option. One foot in front of the other. Squish, splash. Splash, thop.

He could not say when he had begun humming.

A Lenyr travel song had eased its way up out of the depths of him, and now, settled into its easy rhythm, he outpaced the cat and the fox. The mist seemed to lighten in the distance, and he felt certain the ground had taken a slight upward angle. Heartened, he began to sing.

Something cracked beneath his step, and he sank to his waist in questionable water. His song ended in a yelp.

The darkness of the cavern crowded in on them, so close that they were nearly upon the fork in the passage before they saw it. Van-Dal lifted his globe of light high, but the two paths looked identical. He crouched, examining the stone beneath their feet, but Ragheiyont breezed past him, giving an airy wave of his good hand.

“I got this, j—Ah, I got this,” he corrected, and Van-Dal’s lips twitched in a near smile. The young thief stood right at the junction, closed his eyes, and pressed his forehead against the rough stone of the cavern wall. Van-Dal took the opportunity to draw Seikhiel aside.

“What were you thinking?” he hissed through his teeth. Seikhiel’s brow creased in a frown, but he followed the direction of Van-Dal’s glance. Blithely oblivious, Ragheiyont stood absorbed in his work. “You gave him blood from the flesh. At your age, surely you know—”

“I panicked,” Seikhiel interrupted, and Van-Dal saw at once how dearly the confession cost him. “I… I wasn’t thinking at all.” His gaze turned downward, the mighty warrior shook his head. “This will bring no end of trouble.” He looked worn, defeated.

Van-Dal heaved the weary sigh of one who manages the blunders of others every day. “We’ll get past this, I’m sure. Just, be gentle of his feelings.” He had promised to look after Tharaiyelagh. Lacking the ability to do so, he would make a solid effort at protecting Ragheiyont. Even from the faux pas of angels who cared little for dragon customs. “Who knows how he will react to this.”

To his credit, Seikhiel looked abashed. “He seems fine right now.”

Just then, Ragheiyont crowed in triumph. “This way!” he sang out, bounding into the darkness of the passage to the left. Van-Dal pinned Seikhiel with a fierce stare.

“For now,” he said, his low voice a growl of warning. Seikhiel nodded.

Together they proceeded onward, downward into the belly of the earth. Before long, they had caught up to Ragheiyont, and the young thief attached himself to Seikhiel’s side. Van-Dal sent the angel an arch look. Seikhiel stared doggedly into the dark.

“This is just like the caves I spent my childhood in,” Ragheiyont chattered happily. “A lot deeper, sure, and maybe not as cold, but really similar anyhow. Y’ever had gulchskipper? Tarali an’ I used to have those for supper all the time. They’re proper nutritious, but—”

“Those things taste awful,” Van-Dal interrupted, drawing a quizzical look from Ragheiyont. It horrified him to think of Tharaiyelagh growing up on such vile fare.

“Like meat that somehow has most of the flavor of hydrogen peroxide,” Seikhiel agreed, grimacing at some distant memory. “I tested it twice because I thought it might be poison.”

“Nuh-uh.” Ragheiyont staggered a little in his vehemence. “I refuse—refuse to believe either of you fancy-men ever had gulchskipper. That’s… That ain’t right.”

Seikhiel spared Van-Dal the trouble of refusing an explanation. “I was stranded in the mountains with two soldiers who were injured and too weak to cross to another Sphere. We were there more than a week before they had strength enough to travel. Provisions gave out after four days.” He grimaced. “Nothing that’s easy to catch on your Sphere tastes good.”

Ragheiyont’s laugh rang down the cavern. Van-Dal’s tail twitched his satisfaction.

So far, so good.

A gloom had fallen over the swamp, and the mist gathered in closer for the evening, or what passed for night in this place. The trees groaned and shifted. The root twined around Szearbhyn’s ankle held him fast, resisting his efforts to drag himself out of the water.

Luccan started forward, to drown him or to yank him free, but Atchi stilled him with a hand on his shoulder. “We won’t get an opportunity like this again,” he said. Rolling his eyes, Luccan turned away. Atchi crouched, placing himself on a level with Szearbhyn’s scowl.

“Whatever you mean to extort from me—”

Atchi waved a dismissive hand. “Information, of course. You’re going to tell me how the Blood Prince of Seyzharel came to make a Mortal-Born son.”

“Atchi—”

“The Fourth Sphere is my business,” he interrupted, not glancing away from Szearbhyn, “for as long as I choose to make my home there. Answer me, Soul-Stealer.” His lips split across in a sharp-toothed grin. “Answer me, and I shall free you.”

Szearbhyn kicked his feet, hoping to find purchase on anything other than the grasping roots. His toes had gone a little numb. “My ma taught me never to bargain with a fox,” he said, echoing Atchi’s grin with one made of pure bravado. He was sunk, quite literally.

Atchi chuckled, and a tremor ran the length of his silvery tail. “Wise. But in this case, wisdom won’t save you.” He tilted his head to one side, studying Szearbhyn as though surveying the landscape of his thoughts. “I mean your friend no harm. Many of the Mortal-Borns in the Fourth Sphere have been enslaved at some point, and it is currently my trade to free the slaves. For a profit, of course. So you must see, this is professional interest.”

“You talk too much,” Szearbhyn grumbled. Worse, the fox made a good argument. “It’s not Tempest I’m protecting.” How odd to admit it. His lip curled in disdain of himself. Atchi stiffened in surprise, and Szearbhyn pressed the advantage. “Is that worth hauling me out? Forbidden knowledge of the Blood Prince himself?”

“Atchi.” Exasperated, Luccan elbowed his friend aside. “Enough theatrics. We have more pressing concerns.” Reaching down, he grasped Szearbhyn by the wrists. Atchi’s hand closed over Luccan’s forearm.

“Let him speak.”

“Quickly,” Luccan growled, and Szearbhyn thought he felt a chill creeping in on the mist. He drew a deep breath.

“Baleirithys came to the Mortal Realm in distress. I have never seen him so…” Feral. “Desperate.” Szearbhyn cleared his throat, trying to shake away the memory. “He wanted blood, and he would have gone through me to get it. Tempest got between us. Baleirithys came to his senses when he realized he’d envenomated a human.”

Luccan sucked a sharp breath through his teeth. “He used his venom?” Everyone knew dragon venom dealt a most painful death. Dragonkind also regarded its use as vulgar.

“I told you,” Szearbhyn said, “he wasn’t himself. He also did not know that Tempest has always had… contact with demons.” Let Atchi chafe at his withholding information. The details of Tempest’s childhood were not on offer. “He had more than enough demonic energy in him to make the Rebirth at the moment of death.” He glanced around, and he thought he saw shadows shifting in the gloom. “Now will you haul me out?”

It took both of them, straining against those grasping roots, but in the end the swamp released its hold on Szearbhyn. He squelched free of the muck and lurched forward, stumbling into the arms of his reluctant rescuers.

At least he was able to share the soggy experience.

With nowhere dry to rest, the three of them slogged onward in sullen silence. Branches reached out to caress them with damp, mossy fingers, but Luccan swatted them away with growing ire. It seemed the cat grew weary of being wet.

Deep in the mist, something flickered, then stilled. Luccan stopped so abruptly Szearbhyn stumbled against him. At his side, Atchi grumbled an oath. Szearbhyn squinted, willing the mist to fade.

Not so far away, pinpoints of violet light gleamed in the dark, at almost the right height to pass for eyes. Two. Then six. Then perhaps a dozen. Then more. A chill ran down Szearbhyn’s spine.

Luccan groaned the groan of a man whose horse had thrown three shoes in one day. Then he reached for Warbringer.

Tharaiyelagh huddled his knees to his chest. By strenuous diplomacy, he had managed to persuade Lord Tempest and Akieryon that he could take a turn keeping watch while they rested. Now, as the haze thickened with a sulfurous smell and the ground beneath them thrummed as though in protest, he questioned the wisdom of doing so. Surely no living creature would endure this inhospitable slope. Surely he was unsuited to defend them against anything that might exist in this place.

His back itched painfully, and he shrugged his shoulders against the fabric of his shirt. It would accomplish as little as his vigil. Nothing helped the itching. He had only to bear it in silence. Rising to his feet, he began to pace a slow, silent circle around his two companions.

He could be at home right now. He could be at his lord’s side, where he belonged. What lapse of judgment had prompted him to volunteer for this journey? So far, he had slowed their progress with his sore feet. What could he really contribute in a place where even Lord Tempest’s magic could do little more than guide them?

Tharaiyelagh stilled in his circuit, and he looked back at his two companions. The haze softened their forms, making them seem oddly at peace. Tempest stretched flat on his back on the powdery sand, his arms folded beneath his head, as though nothing at all bothered him. Akieryon curled close against his side, seeking shelter or comfort or—

Tharaiyelagh squashed an unexpected twinge of jealousy. Shaking his head at himself, he turned away. He was fine on his own. He needed no reassurance. He could bear this peril as well as that anxious angel, couldn’t he?

He resumed his pacing just as another small tremor shivered through the hillside. By now, Tharaiyelagh scarcely noticed them, but he should have. He took a step, and with a crack! the ground yawned open before him. He yelped an oath as he plunged into darkness.

Chapter Text

A tale I promised, my young friend. A tale you shall have.

Imagine, if you will, a smith of some renown—don’t scoff at your elders, boy, it’s rude—with two apprentices at the forge. This was not unusual. I’ve had as many as five at a time, but just then there were only the two. Earnest young men both, they came to me to learn of steel, but what they really craved was the magic struck into the metal with every fall of my hammer.  Yes, you impudent child, everyone does want that.

In those days, I had recently completed Warbringer. Oh, yes, mighty Warbringer was forged in my righteous fury and plunged still a little warm into the flesh of an angel, one who would have killed me first, had I given him the chance. Abomination. Hah. Well, considering that the blade took on the character of the moment, I suppose I should not have made it quite so powerful.

Now, if you ask the cat, he will deny it to his dying breath, but Warbringer is not the finest blade I have ever crafted. No, dear friend, that distinction belongs to the one I forged after Warbringer. My final blade, as it turned out. A sword I made as a gift to an angel—of sorts—who had done me a great kindness.

My triumph, my masterwork… of course I mean Reunion

Baleirithys paced his outer chamber, his slippered steps crisscrossing the pool of moonlight on the plush rug. An unnamed anxiety clawed up his throat, unfurling its tendrils along every nerve until the the beast he buried deep inside howled for vindication. He trembled with need, with agitation. Beyond the finely cut panes of his windows, a wisp of clouds slipped across the moon, and Baleirithys’ mood darkened with it.

He crossed the room one final time, to the wall that divided this space from his bedchamber. On the vanity table, a jeweled dagger and a silver chalice gleamed, ever at the ready. So few ever chose the blade. Baleirithys reached beneath the table, and his claw flicked a switch on its underside. A panel in the wall slid soundlessly aside.

Baleirithys stood before the compartment, studying his own reflection in the stand mirror he kept tucked away between his rooms. He looked drawn, he decided, which hardly suited his alabaster beauty. With a sigh, he traced one fingertip along the filigree frame of the mirror. Blue gems glistened there, pulsing faintly with magic, one stone for every one of his people he kept safe at his castle. Here he anchored them. Here he stored the magic of the binding spell, the Blooding. True, he could keep it all in his person, but this method was safer for everyone.

His hand stilled when it came to the gem that anchored Tharaiyelagh. It pulsed faintly with an inner light, an effect of recently renewing the bond. Baleirithys pressed his tongue against the backs of his teeth, remembering, reliving the taste of the blood and the rush of the magic. The stone fairly buzzed in response to his emotions, first resonating a happy sensation, but falling quickly into alarm. A frown drew Baleirithys’ brows inward. Was this what had pulled him from his repose? Did Tharaiyelagh suffer, and suffer dearly enough to call out to his lord across such a distance?

Had it been a mistake to allow him to go?

Baleirithys pressed his thumb to one fang, just breaking the skin, and then he touched the tiny drop of blood to Tharaiyelagh’s stone. He pushed his will across the blood bond, quieting his own anxiety enough to send Tharaiyelagh strength.

You will return to me.

His hands shook as he closed the panel. So simple a spell could not drain him, and yet fatigue settled over him like a mantle draped around his bones. He paced through to his bedchamber, where he dropped almost gracelessly on top of the blankets.

Sleep would continue to elude him.

The impact drove the air from Tharaiyelagh’s lungs, but still he tasted the dust that billowed around him. Glass. Sulfur. Ash. He threw his arm across his face before he could draw a ragged, useless gasp. His lungs burned, he gulped and choked and failed to breathe, and he sobbed into his sleeve. Was this how he died? Shattered and suffocating? Panic squeezed him in its grasp.

The tears blurring his vision washed his eyes clean of dust. Such a small detail to notice, but he seized upon it with all his strength, driving back the panic. He forced his body to still and stop gagging for air. Slowly, he calmed. After a minor eternity, he breathed.

Everything hurt.

He could smell blood.

Moving would be useless. He could almost hear echoes of the snapping of his bones. His left leg swiftly numbed even as it ached to the core. He could only lie helpless and hope for rescue. If he remained calm, soon he would draw breath deep enough to call for help. Soon.

First he had to stop coughing with every third breath.

Ash seared his lungs with each gasp, and he still sobbed with the pain of every breath. He clenched his fists in frustration, but he would not strike them against the soft earth, would not scatter more accursed dust into the air. He squeezed his eyes shut, and he begged himself to find some hidden reserve of strength. If he could master his breath, if he could sit up above the worst of the dust, perhaps…

Perhaps he would not embarrass himself.

The realization of his deeper fears struck him into stillness. Yes, he dreaded embarrassing himself, and by extension, all of Seyzharel. Had his lord not chosen him over everyone else who could do the job of chancellor? What if Tharaiyelagh failed? Proved himself dull and weak and useless? He could never live with the shame of it.

He opened his eyes and blinked away his tears, useful though they had been. High above, he could see the fissure he had fallen through, a narrow slash of gray against the black of the cavern. Even if he had not broken his leg, he would never climb out on his own.

A flicker of movement broke the feeble light above, then disappeared from view. Tharaiyelagh tried to draw breath enough to call out, but only managed a fresh fit of coughing. Perhaps his companions would never find him. Perhaps it was his fate to be lost forever in Interspace, in this miserable pit in this bleak hillside…

“Tempest! Over here!”

As Tharaiyelagh tried to squint through his tears yet again, the fissure above vanished entirely. He swallowed the last of his coughing, and he held his breath. Above, it sounded like someone struggled to squeeze through the gap that had admitted him readily enough. Some faint oaths reached his ears, along with fallen pebbles stirring fresh billows of deadly dust. Watch it! he wanted to shout, but still he lacked breath enough to waste on crying out.

A light flared above him, soft and white, and in a moment Akieryon alighted at his side. Tharaiyelagh tried not to breathe the fresh billows of dust.

“How’d you manage to fall in a hole?”

Tharaiyelagh glared as the angel summoned a narrow tongue of flame to hover above them. It illuminated the pit better than the faint glow of his wings did.

“Ooh, this is a nasty break.” Akieryon leaned over him, blocking Tharaiyelagh’s view of his leg, but he could see his blood where it had seeped into the ashy dust. “Any other injuries?” he asked as he edged forward, somehow a little hesitant to conduct a full examination.

Tharaiyelagh shook his head. Aside from his abused airways, his leg had probably taken the brunt of the damage. Akieryon nodded and rubbed his palms together. The air warmed. It crackled and sizzled, and Tharaiyelagh watched with apprehension as the space between Akieryon’s hands took on a faint glow, much like the light from his wings. He placed his palms over Tharaiyelagh’s leg. Warmth tickled over his skin before spreading into muscle, sinew, and bone.

More pebbles rained down from above, distracting Tharaiyelagh from the strange sensations in his injured leg. He looked up, alarm gripping him enough to squeeze out a strangled shout. “Lord Tempest, don’t—!”

Tempest’s landing beside Tharaiyelagh cast up a fresh cloud of dust. He grimaced and made a small gesture, turning his open palm downward, and the dust obediently lay flat, as though it had never stirred at all. Near Tharaiyelagh’s knees, Akieryon gasped and snatched his hands away.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Keeping his hands clutched against his chest, Akieryon shook his head. “Just… He just pushed back against my healing spell. Just now, when you arrived.”

Pressing his lips tightly together, Tharaiyelagh looked away. Lord Tempest and Akieryon leaned over his leg together, inspecting the injury. An enormous purple bruise blossomed across his shin, but the skin had closed up and the swelling dwindled.

“You should be able to walk,” Tempest pronounced after the uncomfortable silence had stretched until it nearly broke something else in Tharaiyelagh. “What about the rest of you?”

“Fine,” Tharaiyelagh wheezed.

Lord Tempest’s eyes narrowed. “Your shirt,” he demanded. “Off.”

His face burning hotter than the little flame hovering above them, Tharaiyelagh clutched the fabric of his shirt over his chest. “I’m fine!” he squeaked, but a rattling cough betrayed him. Tempest arched an eyebrow and tilted his head. With a sigh of resignation, Tharaiyelagh shrugged out of his jacket and his shirt.

“Ah,” said Tempest, his dancing eyes immediately falling upon the new bite mark on Tharaiyelagh’s shoulder. Tharaiyelagh clapped his hand over it with stinging force.

“Right. Nothing to see here.”

Akieryon made a poor effort to stifle his laugh. Tharaiyelagh glared through the gloom until he turned away.

Lord Tempest leaned close and listened to Tharaiyelagh’s lungs. He tapped at various ribs, some more tender than others, and prodded him somewhere around the region of his liver. Then he peered at Tharaiyelagh’s back and let out a noisy breath. “I suppose this is nothing to see as well?”

Tharaiyelagh shifted his shoulders, stretching the long scabs that ran parallel to his spine. “It’s… it’s fine.” He almost held his breath, hoping his prince would ask no more questions. He wanted to keep the truth a secret a little while longer. A secret treasured between himself and Van-Dal.

“Here.” Tempest placed one hand on Tharaiyelagh’s spine and one on his chest. Warmth flooded his lungs, and his breathing eased. “Better?” When Tharaiyelagh nodded, he grinned. “Good. If that hadn’t worked, I would have had to give you some blood.”

“Lord Tempest!” Tharaiyelagh gasped, scandalized at the mere thought of overreaching his station. “I could never—”

“You’d drink it if I commanded you to.”

Tharaiyelagh’s jaw snapped shut on his protests. What indeed would he do in such a situation? His hands trembled as he pulled his shirt on and secured the ties.

“Now what?” Akieryon turned in a slow circle, inspecting the pit. “I doubt we’ll be climbing out.”

“Hold the light higher.” Tharaiyelagh started to climb to his feet, and found Tempest’s arm steadying him. His cheeks warmed. “There.” Nearly obscured by a rockfall, a hewn archway led away into darkness. When his two companions gave him curious stares, he managed an uncomfortable shrug. “It didn’t sound like a fully enclosed space.”

Akieryon made a thoughtful noise. Tempest nodded and gave Tharaiyelagh’s shoulder a brief squeeze.

Into the underbelly of the hill. That hardly sounded promising.

Raaqiel ducked out of his office half an hour early. He had managed to avoid Feriel, Sidriel, and Niseriel all day long. Why ruin it now? He packed up the last of the quizzes he had yet to grade, and he took the back stairs down to the parade grounds. Michael was there, showing off for his usual crowd of fawning admirers. Rolling his eyes, Raaqiel stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked faster.

He dodged the patrol cadets on their rounds, skirted the barracks yard, and made for the front gate. Sweet freedom lay beyond. Home. His library. An unreasonably large heap of blankets. He half expected to hear feet running behind him, voices calling out his name, urging him to stop, to turn back.

He cleared the gate, the smart flagstones of the Academy yards giving way to cobbled roads, and tension seeped out of his shoulders.

The road to the right would take him down the hill to Enoch’s. To the left, he would find the bustling shops and cafes surrounding the Memorial Oak. Legend held that Sidriel himself had planted the tree. Raaqiel had never bothered to ask.

His hand unconsciously falling to the sword at his hip, Raaqiel considered the two paths. He would find solace at Enoch’s. A friendly ear, should he choose to employ it. But he would also be visible, available to approach. He glanced to the left, and his sword gave a soft thrum of approval.

Well. Even when he disliked the option, the enchanted blade never actually steered him astray. Affecting a casual saunter, Raaqiel headed down the road to the left.

Ragheiyont’s chatter filled the empty caverns. He boasted of past thefts and daring escapes. He complained of petty annoyances. Mostly, though, he told tales of his childhood, spent in the dark beneath the jagged cliffs of Seyzharel. Did Baleirithys know that some of his people lived hidden away in the inhospitable wilds?

Eventually, the floor evened and flattened. When Van-Dal crouched to inspect it, Ragheiyont leaned against the cavern wall above him. “Y’like my little Tarali, yeah?” He paused, choosing his words with greater care than he had yet demonstrated. “Like, like-like?”

Pushing a noisy breath out through his nose, Van-Dal tilted his head against a wave of irritation. “I’m not certain how you can make three identical words take separate meanings.” His fingertips traced tool marks where the floor met the cool stone of the wall. “Look. Someone has worked to make these caves into roads. Such as they are.”

“Yeah, it smells like ruins down here.”

“And you didn’t mention?” Straightening, Van-Dal dusted his hands and reached for his gloves.

Ragheiyont shrugged. “I thought everyone knew.” Brazenly, he linked his arm through Van-Dal’s. “Now, Tarali, he’s a great kit. Always thoughtful and inquisitive, but a little… eh, needy? I guess? Comes of not havin’ better parents than just me, I reckon.”

Van-Dal almost pulled away from him, but the topic caught his interest. He walked onward at a steady pace. “What do you mean?”

“How are your people born? Egg or membrane or live birth?” When Van-Dal scowled at the intrusiveness, Ragheiyont waved the question away. “Us, we’re mostly live births these days, but membrane birth ain’t so far in the past as we don’t remember, see? An’ some of us come out fightin’, like we still need to break free into the world.” He drew a ragged breath. “Tharaiyelagh, he’s a fighter. No surprise, yeah? It was jus’ the three of us, an’ me wi’ no idea where ta get a healer, an’ I tried, but…”

Seikhiel’s hand settled on Ragheiyont’s shoulder, gave a brief squeeze, and rested there. “It’s not your fault,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. The young thief’s steps faltered for a stride or two.

“Yeah, I know.” He tossed his head in mock defiance before settling back into his tale. “I fed him on my own blood until he was big enough for solid food, but I was only twenty-two, so I s’pose that’s why he’s so small now.” He forced out a dry chuckle. “I ain’t much of a mother, but I did try. Taught him everything I could. An’ I left once I became a danger to him.”

The words sent a shiver down Van-Dal’s spine. “A danger?” he repeated in an undertone. How could a child not yet out of the nest become a danger to his brother?

“Aha, yeah. The sickness.” Ragheiyont released his hold on Van-Dal’s arm, and he swayed against Seikhiel. “Couldn’t control it. Didn’t wanna share it. Had ta leave.”

Sickness. Van-Dal resisted a primal urge to take a step away from him. “And now?” he prompted, knowing he had no right to ask.

This time when Ragheiyont shrugged, his wings failed to lift with his shoulders. “I keep a lid on it.” He turned his face toward the wall, hiding his expression.

“Enough.” Seikhiel maneuvered himself between them. “You need rest,” he said to Ragheiyont, and the thief offered no resistance.

Van-Dal watched the pair of them settle down on the floor, Seikhiel sitting with his back against the wall and Ragheiyont curled up beside him. Yes, he had noticed how Ragheiyont did show outward signs of chronic illness. Though he kept his two-toned plumage in good condition, he had neither buffed nor sharpened his horns in quite some time. Shadows haunted his bright blue eyes, which Van-Dal would have attributed to loss of blood, had Ragheiyont not mentioned another affliction. But was it…?

Van-Dal thought back to the first moment he had taken notice of the thief. A flush to his cheeks and a feverish gleam in his eye, Ragheiyont had tracked Warbringer’s every movement. Perhaps he had evidence enough to guess already, and perhaps he should wonder that Ragheiyont had survived so long on his own. The sickness, the scourge of dragonkind. If one so young could endure it, he would be made of strong stuff indeed.

With a sigh of resignation, Van-Dal crouched beside the drowsy thief. “Here.” Unslinging a pack full of innocuous supplies, he propped it beneath Ragheiyont’s injured arm. “Keep that elevated. You’ll bleed less.” Probably.

Hopefully.

Raaqiel stood at the foot of the Memorial Oak. Above him, around him, its mighty branches stretched, bearing shimmering crystals that swayed and chimed a tuneful cacophony in the breeze. He had not meant to pause here, had not meant to miss her.

He had not meant to feel so alone.

Closing his eyes, Raaqiel touched the sword at his hip. No. He was never alone. Sidriel had seen to that when he had formally presented the priceless blade to him at his graduation.

Well, intention aside, he had come here to this place, to this starfall of crystals, each inscribed with the name of a soldier lost in the line of duty. What would she say to his current predicament? Almost certainly she would laugh. Perhaps she would tell him that he worried too much. That Seikhiel could take care of himself. Life was messy and complicated, and Raaqiel supposed he just wanted to hear someone tell him that he had made the right choice.

“You don’t come here often enough.”

Too late, Raaqiel shied from the sound of Feriel’s voice. His fingers flinched on the hilt of his sword, and Feriel’s bitter laugh cut him to the core.

“What are you going to do, Raaqiel? Fight me for speaking the truth?”

“I don’t want to fight you,” Raaqiel snapped, more stung by Feriel’s accusatory tone than by his words. “I’m just trying to protect everyone.”

Again, Feriel laughed a cold, mirthless laugh. It sounded wrong, all wrong. “It’s too late,” he said, tapping one finger against the crystal that bore the name that had left gaping wounds in both of their hearts. “You lost your chance to protect me a long time ago.”

“We… we’ll make it right.” Raaqiel started forward, but Feriel backed away from him, shaking his head. “We’ll go to Lord Sidriel. We’ll tell him everything. Together.”

“And then what?” Feriel demanded, his voice rising harshly, drawing glances from schoolchildren as they passed through the square. “And then it’s my name hanging from this tree!”

“Feriel—”

“You do what you must. I am already lost.” With a shimmer of magic, Feriel vanished.

Raaqiel slumped to the ground beneath the Memorial Oak. “As am I,” he murmured. Grass dampened his knees, and the name of his moral compass swayed benignly above him.

Chapter Text

Reunion? The Nephil Blade? The last time I saw that one was… almost seven hundred years ago, I think. 

Some cadet had learned to summon it whenever he needed a weapon. Clever thing. I didn’t know that was your most recent work.

“Baleirithys never has to deal with this.” Scowling, Szearbhyn shook swamp water out of his boots. “Lazy bastard, tucked away in his pretty castle.”

With a faint huff of amusement, Luccan dried Warbringer on his cloak. “Surely you don’t object to a free meal, Soul-Stealer?” He slid the sword home into its scabbard. 

“Surely you’re joking.” Szearbhyn tied his boots together and threw them over one shoulder. “Would you enjoy free food that tastes like dust?”

“Curiously enough, I’ve recently been in that very situation. I like to think I was gracious about it.”

“You probably weren’t,” said Atchi. 

Szearbhyn stomped on ahead of them, which had worked out so well the last time. The gloom lightened toward dawn, and he could finally see the soggy swamp giving way to patchy fenland. Knolls of thick grasses broke above the standing water, and reed mace and iris shoots clustered across the landscape. His heart lifted to see it. No more wading in thick sludge. No more sinking in the mud. No more wet moss slapping against his face. 

“I bet it smells better out there,” said Luccan. 

Yes, that too. 

“Why do you hate Baleirithys?”

Szearbhyn shot a glare at Atchi for asking yet another prying question. “Because he is vain. Because he demands to be the center of attention at all times. Because he thinks he can just take whatever he wants.”

“That’s royalty.” With a careless shrug, Atchi brushed past him. “Surely you must know that. Why does this one in particular bother you?”

“What do you know of him? Heroic prince rebuilding a fallen kingdom?” Szearbhyn kicked at a clump of grass. “Propaganda. Surely you must know that.”

A tremor ran the length of Atchi’s tail. “I know that he pays me, and pays me well, for work I would do anyway.”

“At least you are aware of your bias,” Szearbhyn grumbled. He had no desire to think back to that day three hundred years ago, the day he met Baleirithys. A dragon scarcely in his first stage of adulthood had no right to sneer and steal from his elders. Thinking of Baleirithys only invited trouble.

Just look at what had happened with Tempest.

“You are the least welcoming Lenyr I have ever met.”

The mention of his human family shot through Szearbhyn, first ice, then white-hot. Teeth bared, he rounded on Luccan. “You will not speak of them,” he snarled. In a miasma of fear and rage, he stomped on ahead into the fenland. 

It felt less of a relief now than it had first appeared. 

Blood soaked through Ragheiyont’s bandages. Van-Dal checked the tourniquet, checked the wet, sticky gauze, and shook his head. The cursed wound bled more heavily when Ragheiyont slept, and that worried both of his companions. Van-Dal flicked a small blade open and began to cut away the sleeve of Ragheiyont’s blue overcoat. 

“What are you doing?” Seikhiel hissed. He might as well have shouted, for all it would have done to stir Ragheiyont. 

“We need more bandages.” Van-Dal cut across the shoulder seams, then down the other sleeve. He yanked the coat free and settled himself nearby, cutting it into strips. “More water, too,” he added. His knife moved in swift, short, efficient cuts. “He’s going to be dehydrated,” Van-Dal added with the certainty of a man far too familiar with the details of exsanguination for anyone’s peace of mind.

Seikhiel decided to concentrate on the task of waking Ragheiyont. 

He cut his arm open in the same place as before, but this time he used a small cup to collect his blood. Ragheiyont would need more, but he could worry about that in a minute. He held the cup of blood under Ragheiyont’s nose and willed him to awaken. His eyelids fluttered for only a moment before he settled deeper into sleep. 

“Wake up, Ragheiyont.”

Nothing. 

Seikhiel called his name again, while giving him a brief shake. Ragheiyont sighed loudly, but otherwise gave no sign of stirring. He held the cup to Ragheiyont’s lips. Again, nothing. Swiftly running out of ideas, Seikhiel dipped his fingers in the blood and touched them to Ragheiyont’s lips. 

Van-Dal made a soft noise of amused derision. “That’s not better, you know.”

Seikhiel opened his mouth for a retort, but Ragheiyont nibbling at his fingertips stole the words from his throat. Hastily, he snatched his hand away and pressed the cup to Ragheiyont’s lips. Van-Dal’s laughter rang down the dark passageway. 

Ragheiyont gulped the blood from the cup, then groped blindly for the wound on Seikhiel’s arm. “You did this to yourself,” Van-Dal pointed out, and Seikhiel made no effort to argue. It was true, and he would have to bear the consequences. By the dim glow of Van-Dal’s illumination spell, he watched color seep back into Ragheiyont’s cheeks. Seyzharel demons became anemic so easily, and this one had starved as a child. Perhaps that made his health more fragile yet. 

“Enough.” Gently, Seikhiel pushed Ragheiyont away from the wound on his arm. Ragheiyont made a sullen little noise in the back of his nose, then huddled around the empty cup to lick it clean. Seikhiel passed a brief healing spell over his arm. Van-Dal’s eyes flickered in the dark. 

“Why?” he said. “What is the value this one life to you?”

The question surprised Seikhiel. Van-Dal had demonstrated ample interest in Ragheiyont’s wellbeing. What could he mean to learn?

Ragheiyont looked up, blinking the last fog of sleep from his eyes, joining them at last. He set the cup aside with a sheepish little grin, which faded when he saw the fabric in Van-Dal’s hands. “My coat!” he wailed.

“We’ll get you a new one,” Seikhiel rushed to assure him. “A prettier one. But first, we have to get you out of this place alive.”

Ragheiyont nodded, but he watched in petulant silence while Van-Dal changed the bandage on his cursed wound. They ate a sparse meal together, packed their provisions away, and resumed walking down the hewn path. Seikhiel fell into step beside Van-Dal.

“I was complicit in the genocide,” he said, not looking at either of his companions. The truth still cut him to the marrow. “I knew something was amiss in the Fourth Sphere, but I followed orders. I failed to intervene.” Ragheiyont butted up against his other side, touching their shoulders together, offering comfort in the shelter of his wing. Seikhiel did not deserve it. He offered Ragheiyont a weak smile. “I’ll have scrubbed a small portion of the stain from my conscience if I can bring you safely home.”

“Home?” Ragheiyont tilted his head, knocking the curve of his horn against Seikhiel’s temple. “Dunno what that is.” He meant the words lightly, but Seikhiel felt shame twisting knots in the pit of his stomach.

“Well,” he said, “I have to try.”

“I don’t like it.” Akieryon inspected the crumbled archway, frowning at the corridor that stretched away into darkness. “These carvings…”

“They’re an early form of Dragonish,” Tharaiyelagh supplied, leaning closer, fascinated. “One step removed from pictographs.”

Tempest made a noise low in his throat. He watched their scholarly interest with growing unease, for the carvings stank of magic, and not any kind he had ever before encountered. It smelled cold and dusty as the stone walls, yet alive, thriving, vibrant as fertile loam. Whatever it was, it was dangerous. “Don’t touch,” he snapped when Akieryon’s fingertips drifted too near the carvings. Akieryon flinched. So did Tharaiyelagh. Irritated at his own twinge of guilt, Tempest heaved a sigh through his nose. “Look,” he said, “read it, translate it, copy it down for future study. Whatever. Just don’t touch it.” The unfamiliar magic ran through the stone like veins in marble, and Tempest would really rather not see one of his two friends unleash a torrent of acid or a swarm of hornets or some worse arcane horror. 

“I can’t read it,” Akieryon admitted, despite the translation spell Tempest knew he used. He looked to Tharaiyelagh, who had produced a tiny notebook and a stick of compressed charcoal from somewhere on his person. “Can you?”

“Umm…” Tharaiyelagh scribbled furiously. “Some? This—” He pointed. “—is justice. Or vengeance. Or taxes.” He lifted one slim shoulder in an apologetic shrug that caused him to sway precariously. Tempest stepped nearer to the side of his injured leg, offering an arm to lean upon, should he choose to accept it. Caught up in his scholarly analysis, Tharaiyelagh ignored him. “I have no idea what ‘fire of the earth’ is supposed to mean. And this one here could mean a ritual or the hours of the day or…” His words trailing off, he flapped his book in frustration at the inscription. “I need references!”

Tempest felt a scowl pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Can you at least ascertain whether or not we should expect to encounter fire of the earth?”

Tharaiyelagh gave the carvings an anxious glance. “I need a little more time.”

Time, Tempest reflected, and hopefully profound caution. 

Tharaiyelagh worked with the precision of a clockmaker, making notes, rearranging syntax, writing and rewriting and rewriting. After perhaps twenty minutes, Akieryon tired of the inscription and fell to pacing. Neither of them said a word, leaving Tempest with only the scratch of Tharaiyelagh’s charcoal on the page and the shuff of Akieryon’s light footfalls to set a rhythm to his thoughts. He touched his fingertips to the wall, and the strange magic buzzed up his arm. He snatched his hand away, but neither of his companions seemed to notice. Tharaiyelagh had lost himself in his work. Either he would come up with an adequate translation, or it may not matter at all whether Tempest kept the two of them safe. As for Akieryon, well… With a sigh, Tempest tracked his movements by the soft glow of the illumination spell. The underground, the darkness, he had no doubt it was all a bit much for Akieryon, though he gave no sign of distress. Save for the infernal. Endless. Pacing. 

“I think,” Tharaiyelagh announced, his voice too shrill, shattering the silence, “I’ve got something.”

Nearly an hour had passed. Tempest caught Akieryon by the arm, and together they crowded close, looking where Tharaiyelagh pointed. 

“This here, at the top of the arch, I think that’s the beginning of the inscription. It’s written in vertical, thus.” His fingers, still holding the charcoal stick, traced the path of the inscription. “Those two characters at the top there are ‘truth’ and ‘thought’, which I think means—”

“There’s a spell to measure our intent,” Tempest interrupted. He recoiled at the idea of some foreign magic poking around in his mind, but they had no way to go but forward. 

“Yes.” Tharaiyelagh’s voice quieted. “And if we’re found—”

“Unworthy?” Tempest guessed. 

“Lacking. Ah, whatever that means.”

“Then the fire of the earth?” Akieryon whispered, and Tharaiyelagh nodded. 

Nothing to be done for it, really. 

Braced for the worst, Tempest stepped beneath the arch. 

Chapter Text

Oh, has dear Reunion found a new companion, then? Good for her.

Well. In the days before my confinement, I was fascinated by my successes with Warbringer, most especially its semi-sapience. I wanted to move forward from there, to make a blade that would truly act as a partner to its wielder. With the help of my two apprentices, I set to work, but I never showed them the more experimental parts of the process.

For the best, really.

Fool that I was, I had though my students faithful and focused. As it turned out, one of them was studying arcane arts on the side. He waited until Reunion was completed. Then, fool that he was, he assumed that he had learned all there was to learn from me. He used the blood of my other student to feed this prison, to force it to grow up around me faster than I could burn it away.

I expect the first cursed blade he forged devoured him.

I do not share my secrets lightly.

The foreign magic buzzed in Tempest’s veins and rattled around in his bones. He ground his teeth against it, fighting against the instinct to fight it, to claim it, to dominate it. This was old magic, dragon magic, and here he surely had much to learn.

The urge to linger nearly overwhelmed him. If he could stay a while, if he could seat himself at the feet of true masters, what secrets would unfold before him? He would not even need to delay their mission. He had spent untold years outside of time. Not by his own hand, sure, but he could do it again.

No. No, he could not jeopardize their mission for personal gain, even if that gain was priceless knowledge. Shaking himself free of the temptation, Tempest took another step forward, then one more. The buzz of the magic faded to a distant hum. No fire erupted from the earth. Not so much as a single stone fell. Turning, he saw his two companions gaping at him.

“That,” said Akieryon, “is the most reckless thing I have ever seen you do.”

The memory of fangs sinking into his hand said otherwise. “You and I both know that’s not true.”

“You were glowing!” squeaked Tharaiyelagh. Tempest shrugged.

“I guess the spell still works.”

Akieryon stepped beneath the arch, and Tempest choked back a shout of protest. They had no choice but to proceed, and none of his skills could protect any of them from that ancient magic. Akieryon shuddered and doubled over, the heels of his hands pressed to his eyes. A faint light shimmered around him. For a heart-stopping moment, Tempest feared his friend would collapse, would break beneath whatever urges the magic brought out in him. Then, with a strangled little gasp, Akieryon pushed one hand out to touch the wall. He slid his feet over the ash-covered ground, more shuffling than walking forward to join Tempest.

“I want…”

Tempest caught his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Daylight. I know.” He pulled Akieryon close against his side, and he felt some of the tension ease out of him. “We will find a way to the surface, if I have to tear this whole mountainside open.”

Akieryon managed a weak smile. “That’s too dangerous. We could collapse the whole thing, or…” Fire of the earth. He need not say it. Tempest scowled at the stone walls around them.

Tharaiyelagh stepped beneath the arch, took a slow breath, and stepped forward again.

“What was that?” Akieryon demanded, his anxiety fueling annoyance. “Did we break it?”

Tharaiyelagh limped to Tempest’s other side. By the dim light of Akieryon’s spell, he saw the little chancellor blushing. What, indeed, had the gateway found in him? And so swiftly?

Baleirithys had decided to breakfast with the young Hawk prince as a sign of friendship between their nations, but he regretted it almost immediately. Iyahi-Ila entered the solar on crutches, his halting steps closely supervised by Enci, who had not been invited. The healer walked on the side of the boy’s splinted wrist. Baleirithys’ stomach churned at the sight of them.

At the sight of the boy’s injuries.

Iyahi-Ila eased his small frame into the chair almost before Baleirithys invited him to sit. Fair enough. He extended no such invitation to Enci, who stood behind his young patient with a grave expression and just a flash of irreverence in his eyes. Iyahi-Ila looked at the platter piled high with pastries.

“My injuries aren’t nearly so bad as they appear,” he announced, his bald bluntness as rude as his lack of a proper greeting.

Baleirithys reached for his goblet of blood and took a long, bracing draught. He savored the thick liquid as it rolled over his tongue, awakening his senses and his magic together. “Your brother the king seems to think otherwise.”

Iyahi-Ila waved his uninjured hand. “Kiile worries, but I’m not so easily broken.”

None of the three of them mentioned that Iyahi-Ila might have died of his injuries without Enci’s intervention. The internal bleeding, apparently, had been most concerning. Baleirithys helped himself to a pastry—chocolate filled, with a berry blood glaze—and politely changed the subject. Iyahi-Ila made it a chore. It seemed no one had ever taught him the art of light conversation. A gravitas beyond his years hung over him, and his commentary proved sparse and unpleasantly pointed.

Baleirithys stole a glance at Enci, then wished he had not. The healer watched over his patient with a solicitous eye, sparing not so much as a fleeting acknowledgment for his own prince. Before Baleirithys could consider frowning about it, a sizzle of magic caught at the edges of his awareness. It crackled through a particular anchor stone and buzzed along its connection to him, seizing him where he sat. It smelled of dust and stone, like an ancient tomb, and in an instant it had drawn his mind far from the solar, far from breakfast and regrettable company.

Somehow still seated at the table, and yet in another world entirely, Baleirithys locked gazes with his chancellor. Before he could whisper a name, a question, Tharaiyelagh stepped forward, buried both hands in his plumage, and kissed him.

Baleirithys should have broken free, should have fled from the moment, but it overwhelmed him—or perhaps he could tell himself that that was the ancient and foreign magic—and he yielded. He felt the heat between their bodies and the hunger rising in Tharaiyelagh. Or perhaps it had always been there? Then, as suddenly as it had begun, Tharaiyelagh broke free of the kiss. He stepped back, and they whispered to one another, “Don’t forget me.”

The vision released Baleirithys with sickening abruptness, like lurching to a stop after a high speed dive. He pressed both hands to the tabletop to hide their trembling. Taking slow, careful breaths, he pressed his tongue against the backs of his fangs as though he could somehow find the taste of Tharaiyelagh’s blood there. He would not touch his trembling fingers to his burning lips. What had just happened?

“You forged a stronger connection than you meant to.” Iyahi-Ila dragged some berry compote across some slices of cheese, never once looking at his host. “Probably because his magic pushed back against yours. It will fade.”

The connection might fade, but the memory? Baleirithys had tasted plenty of Tharaiyelagh’s blood, but never his lips. He would not dare. Against his better judgment, his gaze returned to the last person he had kissed. More than two centuries had passed since that final indiscretion, but the shame of it still simmered within him. Enci lifted his head, acknowledging the weight of his prince’s stare with a bland sort of acceptance.

Iyahi-Ila tilted his head as though listening intently. “Is it unseemly for a ruler to take his chancellor as a primary mate?”

“You!” Baleirithys accused, half rising from his chair. Enci blinked, but denied nothing. “You’ve done this. What did you give him?”

“My patient,” Enci said, his voice steady, “still receives a pain tonic twice daily.”

“The unintended effects are distasteful.” His mask of ice descending once more, Baleirithys sank back into his chair and gestured for another glass of blood. “This is not your fault, of course,” he said to Iyahi-Ila, “but you will be a tragically short-lived seer if you do not learn to guard your tongue.”

“Sorry.” The boy shrank a little in the wake of his host’s outburst. “I didn’t mean to…”

The apology stabbed at Baleirithys’ conscience more than his flash of outrage had. He should have held his own tongue. He should not have upbraided Enci in the boy’s presence. He should have composed himself before saying a word. Most of all, he should not have frightened this haunted child. He looked again to Enci, and he saw that the healer saw his guilt.

It burned in him, leaving shame in its place.

Creatures stirred in the fenland, drawing Atchi’s attention away. His tail quivered and his ears twitched this way and that, capturing every sound. Luccan maintained his composure better, but the set of his ears betrayed constant vigilance, intent listening. Szearbhyn heard less, but his eyes tracked the movements of small animals through the grasses. After the suspicious emptiness of the swamp, and subsequent attack, he trusted nothing.

Not that he was inclined to trust easily under any circumstances.

You are the least welcoming Lenyr I have ever met. Luccan’s words rattled around in his head, weighing down every step, dragging at him as surely as the swamp mud had. It bothered him, but why? Why should he care? His family didn’t.

A grasping vine snagged at his ankle, and he stumbled, swearing, before he managed to break free. So the swamp lingered, even as the ground eased higher and the branches of the trees twisted skyward. Well. He supposed he deserved it.

“You’re not what I expected.”

Szearbhyn shot a suspicious glance at Atchi. “Based on what, exactly?”

“Your reputation. Soul-stealer.” A slow grin bared Atchi’s sharp teeth. “You’re terribly introspective for a war criminal of your notoriety.”

“If you mean to press me for personal information, prepare for disappointment.”

“Hmm,” replied Atchi, still smiling. Szearbhyn preferred it when the scrabbling fauna of the grasses held his attention.

“He stopped killing innocents for the same reason I did.”

His head snapping around, Szearbhyn shot his darkest glare at Luccan. “You know nothing of me,” he snarled.

Luccan continued as though he had not interrupted. “He found something to fill the void inside of him.”

Huh. Perhaps the cat was worth talking to after all.

Luccan gave Szearbhyn a benign smile. “Was it the Lenyr?”

Irritation flashed down Szearbhyn’s spine and boiled in his veins. “I told you not to speak of them,” he snapped. He stomped on ahead, kicking at the grasses as he went.

“Touchy,” said Atchi.

Damn them both.

Really, though, why should he care? So long as they remained here in Interspace, his irritating companions posed no threat to his human family. Upon their return? Well, why in the world would demons so old trouble themselves with a scrappy little band of humans?

Perhaps he simply feared for their safety in his absence.

Involuntarily, he pressed a hand to his stomach, to the place where a swordthrust had freed him from his mortal imprisonment. He had devoured his murderer before his awareness of his true self had fully returned. And his human family? They loved him just the same as they always had. How could he have run off on this miserable quest and left them vulnerable?

Guilt.

Guilt was the source of his irritation.

Snatching a branch from a scraggly shrub, Szearbhyn prodded at the ground until he found a patch sufficiently dry. There, he sat and he opened his pack. “Lunch,” he announced, not looking up to see if the other two would join him.

Luccan crouched at his side and swiped some bread out of Szearbhyn’s hand. Atchi took the pack from him and dug out some dried fruit. “Tell me,” the fox pried, “did you really eat an entire army as they were surrendering?”

“That was two hundred years ago,” Szearbhyn grumped.

“Before the Lenyr?” Luccan pressed. Szearbhyn bared his teeth at him.

“I like it,” Atchi declared with entirely too much cheer. “Dramatic. Nefarious.” He stuffed his cheeks full of food. “You’ve lost your edge.”

“As it turns out,” Szearbhyn said, regarding him through narrowed eyes, “having someone to disappoint functions reasonably well as an external conscience.”

“Your brother or the Lenyr?”

With a cry of exasperation, Szearbhyn snatched up his pack and hit Luccan with it. Atchi gave a bark of laughter, nearly choked on his mouthful of fruit, and doubled over, wheezing. Luccan laughed at his friend, and an odd warmth tugged at Szearbhyn. Was he smiling? Why was he smiling? These two spent too much time nosing into his business, and it irritated him right up to the edge of his patience.

…Didn’t it?

Or did it feel just like the way his human family teased him? Szearbhyn huddled his arms around himself while fox and cat tussled in rough play. Missing them was a physical ache. He wanted to go home.

The darkness clung like wet wool, only just held at bay by the fire Akieryon conjured. With every step forward Tharaiyelagh edged a little nearer to Tempest, and no wonder. The passage descended ever lower, and ash lay thick on the floor. Akieryon gripped Tempest’s hand and pretended bravery.

“This reminds me of childhood,” Tharaiyelagh said, too abruptly, too loudly. His voice rang off the walls, which had taken on a more precisely tooled appearance. Once, this had been a fine corridor. Heavy curtains of basalt bulged where one might expect windows. Fire of the earth. Akieryon squeezed Tempest’s hand a little tighter.

Tempest tilted his head toward Tharaiyelagh. “You lived underground?”

Tharaiyelagh gave an uncomfortable little laugh. “I grew up in a cave,” he said. He glanced across Tempest, looking for judgment from an angel who had spent centuries in a windowless cell. Akieryon found he had suddenly misplaced his voice, so he simply stared back.

“Was that far from the castle?” Not sparing him a glance, Tempest pulled Akieryon closer against his side. He knew. He understood.

“I… A bit?” Tharaiyelagh broke eye contact. He limped along in obvious discomfort. “I’d heard that it was dangerous near the castle, so when I left the caves, I headed west.” He gestured over his shoulder, toward his absent wings. “That turned out to be unwise.” Somehow, his words lacked rancor. Remembering the agony of feathers being torn from his own wings, Akieryon concentrated on the thick ashfall beneath his feet.

“At least we’re all getting to know each other,” Tempest said with a note of wry humor. Akieryon gave him a soft shove.

“I watched you die. You and I are somewhat acquainted.”

Tempest’s hot breath tickled Akieryon’s ear. “Are you saying you don’t want—”

Akieryon slapped a hand over Tempest’s mouth. Fangs grazed his palm, and as his pulse raced, Akieryon wondered if Tharaiyelagh blushed as fiercely as he himself did. Certainly he would smell the blood.

“Irrelevant.” By will alone, Akieryon kept his voice steady, despite the way Tempest’s tongue played across the scratches on his palm. He took his hand back, took a risk that Tempest would behave himself. “After all, we’re trapped in this…” He squinted through the darkness. “Colonnade?”

Yes, the corridor had given way to a colonnade, and they had all missed noticing any sort of doorway. Not that it mattered. Rubble and sheets of basalt enclosed the space as surely as any walls ever could. Fascinated, Akieryon pressed his hand against the nearest column. Bits of it had fallen away, and at least a little of it may have melted. How had the pathway been preserved? What magics could hold back magma?

“Huh.” Tempest also moved to inspect a column. “This was part of a castle, or a palace, or…”

“A temple?” Akieryon suggested. Did dragons build temples? His memory failed him, and he found himself shrugging. “If we continue onward, we may discover which.”

“We may encounter traps,” Tempest suggested. From flirting to fatalism. Akieryon shot a glare at him, but it missed its mark. Turning, he lifted his hand, and the little flame burned brighter.

“Where did Tharaiyelagh go?”

“Dragons don’t do well on their own.” Raaqiel leaned against the edge of his desk. “If you encounter a solitary dragon, what questions need answering?”

Hands shot up across the classroom, and Raaqiel pointed to invite students to speak.

“Are they sick?”

“Are they injured?”

“Are they feral?”

“Do they need help finding their way back to their family or Clutch?”

Good answers. Leaning his weight backward, Raaqiel said, “If a dragon from below the Seventh Sphere is sick or injured, what is the first thing you should do?”

“Find them blood to consume,” chorused a room full of future Demonslayers.

“Precisely so. Now,” Raaqiel said, taking a giant book from the desk behind him and passing it to the nearest cadet, “your assignment is to list the ten most nutritious types of blood, and the major drawbacks to utilizing each.”

A hand near the back of the classroom stretched upward.

“Master Raaqiel, why do we need to know how to heal a blood-drinking demon?”

Seikhiel would have given a more tactful answer. Pushing himself away from the desk, Raaqiel paced down the aisle between his eager students. “Imagine, if you will, that you have been sent on a mission to the Fourth Sphere. Your objective is to hunt down a rogue mage who threatens the stability of the Spheres, but on the way you encounter a young Seyzharel demon. He is alone, and does not immediately respond to attempts at conversation. He appears slightly feverish, and is quick to bare his fangs. What do you do?”

The student, a youth called Lichel, looked up at him with cool bravado. “I ignore him and I complete my mission.”

“Wrong.” Turning, Raaqiel addressed the rest of the class. “Why do we help this suffering being?”

“Because Seyzharel demons are—”

“Critically endangered,” Seikhiel muttered under his breath. For all the incalculable value of Ragheiyont’s life, the young dragon tottered along ahead of his two companions, inspecting every scratch in the walls with as much carefree enthusiasm as an anemic creature could muster.

“He’s fine,” Van-Dal said. For now. The words hung unspoken between them.

“Until I run out of blood to give.” Though Seikhiel spoke in an undertone, Ragheiyont turned abruptly, and for a moment Seikhiel thought he had heard them.

“Oya!” called Ragheiyont, waving his good arm over his head. “Come and see this!”

“I don’t think we have much choice.”

Van-Dal slanted a wry look at Seikhiel. In moments they had caught up to Ragheiyont, who pointed proudly at some scratches on the stone wall. “Is that a map?”

Seikhiel squinted at the lines. Yes, there was an arrow pointing in the way they had come, indicating the exit. And the other markings… “I haven’t seen this language in over a thousand years.”

Ragheiyont lit up like someone had just told him it was about to rain gold. “You can read it?” His blue eyes sparkled, and he grinned with previously untapped enthusiasm. “Not just a pretty face, are ya, jo?”

With a little shake of his head, Seikhiel leaned closer, studying the map. He had to get them out of this place, get them to safety. To some place where Ragheiyont would have more feeding options.

He had no business feeling so fond of a worlds-renowned thief. Fond feelings would only hurt them both, and Ragheiyont’s life was far too precious to risk so carelessly.

Seikhiel scowled at the map.

The words, sheltered from the elements as they were, jumped crisply from the stone. Seikhiel traced each with his fingertip. “This turn here leads to a water reservoir. This one is a… a granary, I think. A foundry. And a mining complex.” He tapped one path marked on the map. “This way leads to a city.”

With a whoop, Ragheiyont threw his good arm around Seikhiel’s neck and planted a noisy kiss on his cheek. Awkwardly, Seikhiel tried to pull away, but Ragheiyont stuck to him like a limpet to a rock. Van-Dal did a poor job of hiding his amusement.

“To the city, then?”

They all nodded. It was the best plan they had.

Chapter Text

I understand. I don’t share lightly either.

But these are uncertain times. There’s more trouble afoot than the Void straining to bursting—as though that’s not bad enough. The Fifth Sphere is at its own throat. The dragons of Seyzharel have forgotten how to be dragons, and despite the best efforts of their prince, they have much healing yet to do since the genocide. The Heartstone is loose in the worlds once more. And Heaven…

Well, Heaven is a mess for another time. My lord requires my return, so I’ll bring you that gossip when next I visit.

The colonnade had dissolved around him, giving way to a circular chamber draped in colorful silks, some as light as a breeze. The walls twinkled with small lamps encased in bright, faceted glass. Mirrors reflected the light through the silk hangings, all directing the eye toward the bed at the center of the chamber.

Tharaiyelagh took an involuntary step. He could barely see the four posts of the bed through the shifting silks. His feet caught on the edge of an ornate antique carpet as he shuffled forward, ignoring the pain in his leg.

Something on the bed stirred. Tharaiyelagh froze.

“No need to be shy.” The voice seemed to come from all around him. It rumbled like thunder and flowed like music. “Come closer.” Despite his growing apprehension, Tharaiyelagh obeyed. “Tell me your name.”

“Tharaiyelagh.” Was that unwise? That felt unwise.

A long figure sat up from the bed and stretched, slowing off lean, graceful limbs. Something seemed a little off about the proportions of the body rising slowly. One hand lifted, parting the silks. Tharaiyelagh stared, mesmerized by graceful fingers and long claws.

“Hmm. Lovely.” The stranger stepped forward, the silks swirling around his—her?—their form. “A big name for a little dragon.”

Tharaiyelagh squared his shoulders. “I am chancellor of Seyzharel.”

“Are you?” The stranger tilted their head, displaying a rack of horns that curved like a crown. “Where is that?”

The question caught Tharaiyelagh off guard. “The… Fourth Sphere. Who are you?”

“I am the Sacred Dragon of the North.” They swept the final silk curtain aside. Impossibly long lashes framed eyes like opals. Gauzy wings blended with the silks, and every limb seemed oddly elongated. Tharaiyelagh could not help but stare. This was the most beautiful dragon he had ever seen, but also the strangest. “And you are young.” The Dragon of the North stepped swiftly forward, pressed one fingertip beneath Tharaiyelagh’s chin, and pushed his mouth closed.

Protocol saved him from embarrassment. Stiffening his spine, Tharaiyelagh stepped back far enough to execute a proper bow. “It is my exquisite honor, Your…”

When he faltered on the form of address, the Dragon of the North closed the space between them once more. “Please, call me North. I’ve not had company in ever so long.” The accent, and even the words sounded a little strange to Tharaiyelagh’s ears, but that incredible voice rolled around in his brain, drawing him in, inviting him to forget his mission, forget his cares, forget his life in Seyzharel…

Firmly, Tharaiyelagh shook his head. “Lord North,” he said, “if a humble chancellor may be so bold as to ask, why do you dwell here in Interspace?”

North’s exquisite features fell into a frown. “I am trapped here. My palace fell through the worlds during the Cataclysm.”

“Really?” For a fleeting moment, curiosity won out over decorum. “How have you sustained yourself for so long?” Almost six thousand years, if the records in Seyzharel kept an accurate timeline.

North touched a fingertip to Tharaiyelagh’s lips, pressed them softly apart, touched the edge of one fang. While Tharaiyelagh stared, blood rushing in his ears and heart hammering in his chest, North gave him a sad smile.

“I do not require blood, as you do. You must belong to my sister, South. As to the passage of time…” North shrugged gracefully. “I hibernate rather more than I would like.”

Acutely aware of the finger lingering on his lip, Tharaiyelagh forced himself to focus on North’s beautiful face. Seemingly lit from within, opal eyes smiled down at him. North leaned down, too close, almost cheek to cheek, then paused, rumbling a thoughtful noise as Tharaiyelagh stiffened once more.

“Do you object to taking a mark, my daring little chancellor?”

Tharaiyelagh thought of the vision he had experienced under the archway. Five seconds of perfect bliss. A kiss he would likely never experience in reality. “I belong to the Blood Prince of Seyzharel,” he said, willing his voice to remain steady. “No other may mark me.”

North’s laugh rang around the circular chamber, stirring the silks as it went. Tharaiyelagh eyed his strange host with curiosity as the impossibly tall dragon stepped back from him. “Oh yes, I think you can conquer it.”

“It?” A more pressing question reared up within him. “Where have you taken me? Where are my companions?”

North turned away, batted aside some gauzy silks, and took a gold chain from a small table. “Tell me.” The irresistible resonance was gone from their voice. “What do you know of Interspace?”

“That it’s the space between the Spheres,” Tharaiyelagh replied dutifully. “It was formed during the Cataclysm, and the few paths in or out are well hidden and difficult to travel.” He thought of the gateway they had used, how it had resisted them and divided their party. With a pang, he realized that he worried for the others, especially for his brother.

“Difficult?” Turning back, North held a pendant toward him. “Every exit demands something of the traveler. It think only one will be viable for you. Take this.”

Luminous and ablaze with the same colors as North’s eyes, a large opal swung from the golden chain. Tharaiyelagh stared at it. “I… I can’t.” He swallowed a sudden dryness in his throat. “Gold is for royalty.”

“Then present the chain to your prince upon your return.” Before Tharaiyelagh could protest again, North looped the chain around his neck and secured it. “Keep this stone with you.”

The gold felt warm against his skin. Tharaiyelagh tucked the pendant away beneath his shirt before he could think about it. “Why?”

North gave him a sad smile. “Because I am lonely.”

The room faded to darkness.

By midday, Baleirithys had grown listless. His thoughts returned to Enci’s cool disdain, and to Tharaiyelagh. Tharaiyelagh’s absence. The unusually strong bond between them. That kiss.

Baleirithys cancelled his afternoon meetings, and he closed himself in his antechamber. Lacking even the will to pace, he folded himself onto a padded stool, and he stewed.

Shadows stretched across the carpet—freshly cleaned—and the faceted glass of the windows threw dancing rainbows everywhere. Too cheerful. Baleirithys waved his hand in a petulant gesture, and the velvet curtains snapped closed. He twisted toward his vanity mirror. The black eyes that gazed back at him looked haunted. Feral. Ready for some havoc.

No. No, he owed it to Tharaiyelagh to keep his inner beast under control. He needed to be here when his chancellor returned, not off terrorizing some distant Sphere. He needed to present a face of stable rule. He needed…

He needed…

With trembling fingers, he touched his lips. They burned with the memory of the kiss, the intensity of Tharaiyelagh’s emotions. Of course he knew that his chancellor loved him, but this? This was so much more than he expected. This was forever. This was the way he himself had loved—

A knock at the door startled him out of his thoughts. Scowling, Baleirithys gestured, and the door swung inward.

Enci stood there, framed neatly in the doorway, looking displeased.

Baleirithys sighed and stood. “Enci. Come in.”

Enci stepped into the room and slammed the door. Baleirithys suppressed a flinch.

“Please,” he said instead. “Speak freely.”

Enci folded his arms across his chest, and his wings lifted at an angle of irritation. “You called my patient out of bed this morning.”

“I did.” Baleirithys studied Enci’s face, and developed a cold feeling in his stomach. Somehow, he had done wrong. “Is that a problem?”

“Yes.”

Enci’s chill demeanor twisted the sliver of uncertainty deep in Baleirithys’ heart. “Do explain.” Did he really want Enci to explain?

Enci took a step forward. His eyes flashed anger, and his pulse beat visibly in his wings. “What do you know of Hawk physiology?”

“Only what you are about to tell me,” Baleirithys admitted.

“A child of his age experiences periods of rapid growth. Iyahi’s hip and knee are badly damaged, and Hawk demons’ limbs do not regenerate the way ours do. The ways his body has been broken can cause the next growth spurt to turn out… Wrong. It’s already likely that he will never become a warrior, and you called him out of bed before he should even be standing!”

Stung by Enci’s words, Baleirithys blinked. “Why didn’t you tell me this morning?”

Enci waved one arm in a gesture of helplessness. “As soon as your invitation arrived, the young prince was out of bed and trying to wash up!”

Ah. So not all of his vexation was directed at Baleirithys.

“Enci…” Baleirithys took a hesitant step forward. “I didn’t mean…”

“Of course you didn’t!” Enci swatted his hand away as Baleirithys reached for him. “You didn’t know! But that doesn’t mean you didn’t hurt him.”

Inexcusable. Swallowing his shame, Baleirithys nodded. “I understand. In the future, I will always consult you first.”

“That’s it?”

What else was there? “I… apologize?”

Enci shook his head. “You’re not fine.” His wings relaxing, he paced around the chamber, trailing fingertips over plush velvet and polished hardwoods. “I’m not sure what’s troubling you. Is it Iyahi? Or is it Tharaiyelagh? Or are you just spoiling for some carnage?” He stopped a mere stride from Baleirithys, and he met his gaze. “Stay with us. We need you.”

“We?” Baleirithys pressed. He had loved this man since he himself had been Iyahi-Ila’s age, and while time had tempered his feelings, at his most vulnerable moments he found he still craved Enci’s approval. It was most inappropriate. It was dangerous.

“Don’t ask me to put my personal feelings ahead of all of Seyzharel.”

No. Neither of them would ever do that.

“I’m… not going anywhere.” Baleirithys wanted to reach across the distance between them, so small and yet so impossible to traverse. He had tried once, had thought he could hold Enci in his arms and in his heart, but his own wounds had forced them apart. Enci knew all of his scars. Enci knew his shame.

Enci reached out.

Baleirithys stared, shocked at the sight of Enci’s fingers encircling his wrist, covering the knots of scarring that hid beneath the silvery silk. He swallowed, but found a lump in his throat. His pulse quickened, and he dared to look into Enci’s eyes.

“You don’t sound certain. Please.” A glint of humor lit his eyes. “The last time you were out of sorts, you brought home a son.”

“Oh?” A flicker of hope stirred in Baleirithys’ chest. Why? “Did that bother you?”

A shadow of a smile twisted the corners of Enci’s lips. “It bothered me to see you in such distress.” His fingers drifted from Baleirithys’ wrist to his palm. “I don’t ever want to see you like that again.”

Baleirithys tugged Enci across the small space between them. He pressed their foreheads together, his wings mantling over Enci’s shoulders. “I… don’t know what to do about Tharaiyelagh,” he confessed in a whisper.

Enci gave his hand a soft squeeze. “Why should you have to do anything at all about him?”

“Because he…” He kissed me across our shared magic. Baleirithys swallowed. “He loves me.” Why did the words hurt so much? Panic battered at him, and he closed his eyes as though that could steady him. Nothing steadied him. That was the problem.

“Of course he does. Baleirithys, you deserve love.” As his prince’s head sank to his shoulder, Enci released his hand and slipped both arms around his waist. “We all love you.”

“I can’t…” Can’t what? Can’t accept that? Can’t understand it? Deep down, he would always be the unwanted prince, the boy whose father wanted him to die. The child in chains.

“You’re trembling,” Enci murmured, his breath tickling Baleirithys’ ear, which did not help at all with that particular matter. Baleirithys shook his head. “You are,” Enci insisted, because he would not lie simply for his prince’s comfort.

“He’s young,” Baleirithys whispered. “He’s going to figure out that I’m a mess and then he’ll leave.”

“My prince, my prince.” Enci held him a little tighter. “There is no one more devoted, no matter how much of a mess you think you are.”

Baleirithys’ heart sank a little. Why? Did he want Enci to feel jealous of Tharaiyelagh? Absolutely ridiculous. But then, what did he feel? Had Tharaiyelagh grown so great in his affections as to equal Enci?

“I can’t be this distracted right now.”

“Shh.” Enci tugged him toward a divan and sat, pulling Baleirithys down with him. “You’re taking the afternoon off, and I’ll stay right here with you.” He tugged, and Baleirithys yielded, sagging against his side. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Maybe not. Baleirithys tilted his head, bumping his horn against Enci’s. Maybe, for once, he could lean on someone else for a little while.

If he could learn how.

The darkness was absolute. Tharaiyelagh scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, as though that might help. He knew he had magical affinity, but he only had learned one purification spell. He could call forth no light. How would he find his way?

Tharaiyelagh shuffled three steps forward. When he encountered nothing, he edged to the left. Nothing. Turning around, he tried six steps forward. On the fifth step, he encountered a smooth wall. He ran his fingers over the hewn stone, noting every notch and groove. Nothing gave him any indication of which way to go.

A pulse of warmth at his chest drew his attention. Looking down, Tharaiyelagh saw the opal glowing beneath his shirt. He turned slowly, and the light faded. Turning back, he kept one hand on the wall, and he followed the light.

He counted steps as he walked, careful of his footing, mindful of his injured leg. After seventy-four paces, he came to a corner. A junction, it turned out. As he stood in place, turning, watching his chest for a glimmer of light, he heard voices echoing down the corridor. Akieryon and Tempest! The pendant forgotten, Tharaiyelagh hobbled as quickly as he could manage, hurrying toward the voices of his companions.

A glow appeared around a bend: Akieryon’s little light. A moment later, Tempest and Akieryon rounded the corner. They froze, their expressions shadowed, but Tharaiyelagh let out a glad cry and increased his pace. Akieryon shouted his name, and then Tharaiyelagh was caught between them in a joyous embrace.

“Where have you been?” Akieryon demanded.

“Some… magic pulled me away.”

“And what’s this?” Tempest’s fingers plucked at the chain he wore, and Tharaiyelagh slapped an hand to his chest, keeping the pendant safely beneath his shirt.

“Ah… an artifact.” Tharaiyelagh felt heat rising in his cheeks. “I’m not sure. But I need to keep it safe.” Was that true? It felt true.

Tempest slanted a skeptical look at Tharaiyelagh, but said nothing. When they continued on toward the junction, the opal resumed its glowing. Tharaiyelagh tried to cover it, but his companions had already seen.

“What sort of artifact is that?” Tempest pressed.

“It wasn’t glowing before,” Akieryon pointed out.

“Ah, no.” Again, heat climbed Tharaiyelagh’s cheeks. “I think…” This sounded stupid. “It seems to be showing the way.”

“Yes…” Tempest’s eyes narrowed. “But to what?”

So far, it had helped Tharaiyelagh reunite with his friends. Friends? Looking up from the pendant, he realized that he limped along between the two of them. Akieryon’s shoulder bumped against his own with every step. Glancing over his shoulder, he realized that Tempest kept a firm grip on Akieryon’s hand behind him.

A slow smile drifted across Tharaiyelagh’s lips. He felt protected.

Together they walked, and just as Tharaiyelagh began to tire, the corridor ended at a door that swung sadly from one hinge. The opal continued its soft glow. Tharaiyelagh hesitated. Why? What was this apprehension that clutched at him?

Tempest pushed the door aside and led the way. Beyond lay a large circular chamber. Dust and ash clung to every surface. Gauzy wisps hung from the ceiling, and at its center stood an ornate four-poster bed.

Ragheiyont grew weary of his two companions doting on him. He had always expected that he would love being the center of attention, but this? They seemed to expect him to drop dead at any moment.

Following the map he had memorized, he led them in the direction of the city. If any answers were to be had, they would likely find them there. The pathway descended deeper underground. The hewn stone walls grew cool and clammy. Underfoot, the floor took on a sandy feel. Blithely he carried on. The city should be just ahead. And where one found a city, often one could find treasure.

Strange, how his blood could warm at the thought of treasure even when he had so little of it to spare. His arm throbbed below the tourniquet, but heat flooded his head, feverish and distracting. How long ago had he stolen the Heartstone? A week, at least. Too long. Soon the chills would set in. Soon the disease would grip him and shake him. He had to feed it, if he wanted to survive. Actually…

Given the blood loss, he should really be sicker by now.

The corridor ended in a towering pair of doors, right where the city ought to be. Two twisted, featureless statues flanked the doors, but Ragheiyont paid them no mind. Slipping between them, he tugged at the doors. Locked, of course. Crouching, he tapped at the lock.

“Ragheiyont…”

Ignoring Van-Dal, Ragheiyont took out his lock picks and hesitated, strategizing how he would manage with one hand mostly useless. He eyed the lock. He was the greatest thief in any world. He could do this.

“Ragheiyont.”

Something in Seikhiel’s voice caught his attention. Sitting back on his heels, Ragheiyont peered up at his two companions. They both studied one of the statues, a figure frozen in the act of closing the door.

Closing the door?

Van-Dal lightly drew one fingertip along the statue’s forearm. His glove came away dusted with a fine, pale powder. “Ash,” he said softly. “They’re ash casts.”

Not statues.

These twisted figures were all that remained of two people.

Chapter Text

Safe journey, my young friend.

The lock gave way with a squeal of protest, a complaint against the ravages of time and… whatever had blasted two men to ash shells. Ragheiyont tugged at the left door. It ground open, taking the arms of its guardian with it. Ragheiyont froze. Opening it wider would crumble the ash figure to dust. He eyed the narrow opening, gauged it a tight fit, and wriggled through.

Beyond, a street paved with flagstone stretched away unbranching. Six towers lined the thoroughfare, slits for archers keeping baleful watch over any approach. Ragheiyont took a cautious step forward. No shouts greeted him. No arrows flew down from above. All remained eerily still. Ragheiyont stepped lightly, exercising his considerable reserves of stealth, but he need not have bothered. The city felt as dead as dry bone.

Like those two men outside.

Suppressing a shudder, Ragheiyont padded down the street, toward what looked like the shattered and decayed remains of a barricade. Curiosity pricked at his brain. What had happened here? The door scraped behind him, and he tensed. Van-Dal and Seikhiel, he reminded himself. For the first time in his life, he did not enter a ruin alone.

They caught up with him as he inspected the barricade. Amid the wreckage, a strange char pattern blackened the pavement. A twisted portcullis lay nearby, but Ragheiyont could make no guess whether the barricade had been meant to replace it or reinforce it. Either way, all efforts had led to the same end.

Abruptly, Ragheiyont realized that he could inspect his surroundings without the aid of an illumination spell. Tipping his head back, he squinted at the great dome that crested high above the city. Slits of light speckled it’s surface like oblong stars, casting the world below in soft twilight. Huh. That was different. A familiar itch spread through his veins, and before he could stop himself he had stretched his wings out, eager for a closer look.

Seikhiel’s hand on his arm stopped him.

“Stay close,” he said in an undertone. “Something’s not right.”

Something? Blinking as though he might clear the fever from his blood by washing it from his eyes, Ragheiyont peered around at the silent city. Beside him, Van-Dal had affixed a mask across the lower half of his face. “Nothing’s right here.”

Ragheiyont shuffled along near his two companions until the street opened into a market square. Immediately forgetting Seikhiel’s admonition not to stray, he scurried around poking at burnt-out market stalls and boarded-up shopfronts. The itching in his veins prodded him onward, enticing him with thoughts of untold treasures, but a newer, more urgent need almost supplanted it. A smithy. If he could find a smithy, if he could light the fire and stoke it up and…

“Ragheiyont.”

A loose board came away in his hand.

“Raya—”

A second board clattered to the pavingstones, and miraculously he glimpsed hammer and tongs in the gloom that filled the window. He scrabbled at the boards, heedless of the blood soaking his bandages. No sooner had the last one splintered free of its nails than he shoved the glass inward and struggled through the narrow window.

Darkness stretched away beyond the little square of twilight. Ragheiyont edged forward, and bruised his knee on a toppled anvil. Would he have to right that? Or might he find another? He had his hand on a bellows now, and he fumbled around for fuel. He snapped his fingers several times before he got a spark, but the tinder caught on the first try, and he scrambled to feed the sputtering little flame. The flickering orange glow revealed two more anvils, both upright, but a nearly empty scuttle of charcoal. Ragheiyont took a pitiful packet from his pocket, unwrapped it with great care, and counted the shards of Wardbreaker. He looked back to the scuttle.

“Ragheiyont.”

Ragheiyont startled, and the fire sputtered out. He blinked toward the door, which now stood precariously ajar. Seikhiel took a step toward him.

“You don’t know how to light a forge.”

In sullen silence, Ragheiyont shook his head. The itch climbed the walls of his veins, growing more insistent still.

Seikhiel took hold of his hand, gently closing the cloth over the shattered blade. “I doubt you have the skills to fix this.” He spoke mildly, the warmth and sadness of his tone easing the impact of his words. Still, Ragheiyont ground his teeth to stop the wobble of his chin.

“I can’t keep dragging us down,” he whispered. “I’m worse than dead weight. You can’t feed me forever.” Just as tears threatened, the inevitable wave of fever struck. The usual complaint, he was simply too weak to resist it. Beads of sweat sprang across his brow, and he shivered in the darkness.

“You’re not dead weight,” Seikhiel was saying. “You’re—Ragheiyont?” When Ragheiyont swayed in place and made no reply, Seikhiel reached out and tilted his face toward the light. “Rahi? Are you ill?”

“Nah’m…” The lie died on his lips as he stared into Seikhiel’s eyes and read nothing but concern there. “It’s fine,” he amended. “It’ll pass inna minute.” It always did.

Seikhiel pushed his thumb between Ragheiyont’s lips, pressed it against one fang. Ragheiyont gasped as his tooth broke skin. Had he ever drawn blood with a bite? A blush that had nothing to do with the fever rushed his cheeks as the taste of copper flooded his tongue. The fog cleared from his mind, and the itching subsided.

Seikhiel caught Ragheiyont as he sagged forward. “Van-Dal,” he called over his shoulder. The assassin appeared as Seikhiel scooped Ragheiyont up in his arms and carried him farther back into the smithy. “He’s sick. It’s not just the anemia.”

Ragheiyont made a derisive noise through his nose. “I’m always sick.” He had lived with it for decades, and if he survived this misadventure, he would endure the beast in his blood for years yet to come. Instead of saying so, he let his damp brow fall against Seikhiel’s cheek. Seikhiel pressed back, just a little, almost like a dragon would.

For the first time in a century, Ragheiyont felt that perhaps someone wanted to protect him.

He wanted the moment to last forever.

Chaighan had brought newcomers to the castle, new people to be blooded, new people for Baleirithys to protect. He had not yet formed an opinion about the younger one, who was half Hawk and female. But she was half dragon, and therefore she was his anyhow. He would figure it out. Or he would avoid her most of the time. Right now was not the time to decide, not while his thoughts turned upon an axis made of Tharaiyelagh.

Of a kiss.

Baleirithys paced his outer chamber. He could focus on the task at hand. This was routine. Everyone contributed, and therefore everyone was protected. His fist clenched around a small oval of blue stone. What was this anxiety? He had nothing to feel anxious about. Tharaiyelagh had kissed him and Enci was cross with him, but everything was fine. It was fine. A knock at the door startled him, and he nearly dropped the stone. Why did he feel braced for a fight?

Baleirithys lifted two fingers, and the door swung open. Beyond stood Gavi, looking every bit as apprehensive as he felt. Freshly scrubbed and dressed in borrowed clothes, she glanced everywhere but at Baleirithys. He took in every detail: the blunted horns, still growing in from the last time the slavers had had them cut, the single broken claw, the way her ridge swept upward like a crest. The distinctive Hawk blues of her plumage. Baleirithys gave a slow nod.

“Come in,” he said, before remembering that Gavi struggled to understand dragonish. “Come in,” he repeated, this time in the language shared between Hawk and Raven Clans. “This will only take a minute.”

Gavi’s lips twisted in a flash of humor. Disappointingly, she kept her gaze lowered as she stepped forward. Baleirithys gestured toward a small table, and Gavi followed the movement with her eyes, which widened when she saw the silver knife and the crystal goblet.

“I need a little blood. Just enough for a protective spell.” He left out the details. He always did. “I require it of everyone under my roof.”

Gavi squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. In that moment, she reminded him overmuch of Tharaiyelagh. Dear Tharaiyelagh… Faced with this same request, Tharaiyelagh had denied the blade. Tharaiyelagh had bared his shoulder and stepped forward. Baleirithys should not have bitten him. Not that day. It was far too soon, and Tharaiyelagh had been barely old enough…

Gavi’s fingers closed around the knife.

A moment too late, Baleirithys realized her intent. Gavi pushed up her sleeve, located a vein, and slashed downward with the knife. Fearless. Misguided, but fearless. Blood flowed. Too much. Too freely. It dribbled into the cup and splattered on the tabletop. Droplets of crimson stained the white linen of her sleeve, and her eyes widened at the sight. His movements more instinct than thought, Baleirithys licked his palm and grabbed Gavi’s arm, right over the wound. It closed up as he pulled his hand away.

Gavi gawked at him. “Teach me,” she breathed. Something irrational in Baleirithys recoiled at the thought. He wanted to bare his teeth, to growl, to tell her to go get her own magic. Instead, he picked up the cup and turned slightly away, giving the blood within a thoughtful swirl.

“I’m no teacher.” Not quite true. He had managed to teach Tharaiyelagh politics well enough. “But there are volumes on magic in the archives. Don’t let Yrich give you a hard time about it.” And right now he needed an untroubled mind. Closing his eyes, Baleirithys drew a deep breath. He quieted himself and he focused. Then he lifted the cup to his lips.

The blood warmed his tongue and intertwined at once with his freshly awakened magic. He drew the energies together into a tightly spun thread, which he pushed into the stone still held in his hand. Once he had anchored it there, he reached out for the fine web he had woven of everyone who belonged in his castle. The shifting threads of magic quivered in response to a new addition, then settled. It was done. Gavi was home.

A sharp tug along another energy thread snapped his eyes open.

Tharaiyelagh.

Putting on a mask of serenity, Baleirithys turned again to Gavi. “Good,” he said. “That’s all for now. Occasionally I will need to renew the enchantment, but it’s not often.”

When Gavi had gone, Baleirithys opened the panel in his wall and added the new gem to the mirror’s frame. He surveyed it for a long moment, admiring his growing collection of people. He gathered them to him and he kept them safe. And then…

Tentatively, he touched one fingertip to Tharaiyelagh’s stone. It felt warm.

Van-Dal lit a small fire in the forge, and he handed Seikhiel a soft black overcoat to cover Ragheiyont until the fever had broken. Then, lacking anything else to do, he explored the smithy. Let Seikhiel look after the thief. They seemed to be growing fond of one another, and Van-Dal feared…

No, fear was the wrong word. Still, Ragheiyont’s illness made him uneasy. Not much could give a dragon a fever, even one weakened by blood loss. Van-Dal found a set of stairs up the back of the building, and he crept upward. His thoughts followed him into a small, cozy set of apartments. Ragheiyont said he was always sick. That almost guaranteed that he had The Madness, the destroyer of lives, the disease that caused dragons to turn on their own, to cut down tiny nestlings just to feed their cravings. If it was true, Ragheiyont was a danger to everyone around him. If it was true… Well, he supposed he would have to tell Baleirithys.

Van-Dal pushed a door open. A tidy little bedroom lay beyond. The bed had dry rot, but the window seat looked promising. A deep layer of dust covered the small bookshelf. A threadbare rug clung to the shrinking floorboards. The stairs creaked behind him, and he froze, half expecting Ragheiyont to come to challenge him for imagined treasure.

“He’s asleep.”

Seikhiel sounded weary. Turning, Van-Dal studied the angel’s somewhat wilted posture. Keeping Ragheiyont alive was wearing him down. “This illness of his…” Van-Dal hesitated, searching for the right words, the words that would convey the peril they faced.

“Hoarding Sickness,” Seikhiel said in a near-whisper, startling Van-Dal. “That’s what it is, isn’t it?”

Van-Dal nodded. “Its a terrible disease. One drop of tainted blood, and soon enough a man will slay his entire Clutch just to feed the fever.” He met Seikhiel’s worried gaze with his own unflinching stare. “If I must, I will kill him.”

“I can’t promise not to stop you.”

Van-Dal nodded. So long as they understood each other. He crossed to the window seat and wiped dust from the glass. The market square lay below like a monochrome diorama, scaled down and lifeless. His eyes traced each shadow.

Then one of the shadows stirred.

Chapter Text

Van-Dal pressed against the wall, peering at the street below. Beside him, Seikhiel had gone unnaturally still. The shadow stumbled forward with an awkward, unsettling sort of shuffle, moving as though its joints were half formed and mostly forgotten. It looked shrunken and twisted, with proportions stretched and squashed at the same time. It looked like it was forgetting what it ought to be. It looked wrong.

“We have to go.”

Van-Dal turned to ask what the shadowy thing in the square was, but Seikhiel had already reached the top of the stairs. If the unnatural creature outside could inspire the legendary Sword of Heaven to retreat…

Not wanting to complete the thought, Van-Dal charged after Seikhiel. He met him on the way back up the stairs, this time with Ragheiyont bundled in his arms. “What is that thing?” he demanded as Seikhiel began kicking doors open, searching for a second-story exit.

“Lost Souls,” Seikhiel said, his voice terse. “I don’t know how they got here, but we need to—” A door splintered off its hinges. On the other side of the room, the twilight outside illuminated a broad balcony. “This way.” Not breaking stride, Seikhiel unfurled shimmering white-gold wings.

“Wha’s Lost Souls?” slurred Ragheiyont against Seikhiel’s neck. He sounded so worn down, scarcely a shadow of his former buoyant self. Like the crabbed shade in the market square.

Seikhiel’s foot hit the balcony railing, and then he was in the air, shining wings outstretched. Van-Dal followed a beat behind. He looked down, and he saw the silent street below seething with countless twisted shadows. They were swarming?

“Lost Souls,” Seikhiel explained loudly enough for Van-Dal to hear, “are spirits of the dead who have somehow escaped the Void, which is where the Ferrymen take them.”

Van-Dal eyed the teeming streets below. “Is it normal for there to be so many of them?”

“Not remotely!”

Well that was a charming thought. “Do you think these ones have escaped?” he wondered. “Or were they simply trapped after perishing here in Interspace?” These could be the citizens of the eerily silent city.

Their numbers seemed endless.

“Look out!” Seikhiel swerved to avoid another Lost Soul, this one leaping at them from a sort of tall spire. Van-Dal twisted away from it, but its outstretched hand—if hand the transparent and formless appendage could be called—brushed against his wingtip. The touch passed right through his skin, leaving him feeling burned and chilled at the same time. He gasped, sucking his mask tight against his face.

“NO!” Ragheiyont abruptly howled. He scrabbled and twisted, fighting with all his strength to free himself from Seikhiel’s grip. Overbalanced, they both plummeted. Glancing below, Van-Dal saw why. A familiar cloth packet struck the pavingstones, and for a moment, the Lost Souls scattered away from it.

Wardbreaker.

Swallowing a curse, Van-Dal tucked his wings into a sharp dive. He could get it. He could snatch it up and show it to Ragheiyont and—

Two more Lost Souls passed through his wings just as he snapped them open to stop his descent. Numbed, he lost control of his flight, and he crashed hard into the street. He skidded to a stop, that damnable broken dagger right in front of him.

“Troublesome thing,” he grumbled, picking it up and tucking it away into a secure pocket.

Seikhiel and Ragheiyont landed heavily beside him, only just disengaged from each other. Ragheiyont looked around, his panic growing. “Where—?”

“I have it.”

“Good.” Seikhiel drew a sword, his expression grim as he placed himself between his companions and the Lost Souls that streamed back toward them.

Van-Dal pushed himself up off the pavement. “Is there a way to fight these things?”

“Not really.” Seikhiel’s sword had begun to glow with the same soft light as his wings. “I can hold them off for a while, but I’m no Ferryman.”

“There’s a gate,” Ragheiyont said, pointing. He sounded better, like the fever had gone already. Unexpected, but fortunate. “That way.”

Van-Dal glanced in the direction he indicated. A monster of a gate towered over the rooftops, two doors framed by the tusks of some ancient, immense beast. It looked like no one had opened it in centuries, but at that particular moment, it seemed prudent to trust a thief’s instinct for escape. Van-Dal drew his own sword. “Can you get it open?”

Ragheiyont stretched his wings wide. “I bet I can,” he said.

“We’re all betting on you,” Seikhiel called over his shoulder as he advanced toward the throng of Lost Souls. “Now move!”

Ragheiyont sprang into the air. Beside a Demonslayer, Van-Dal braced for the strangest battle he had ever faced.

Tharaiyelagh sat with his back pressed to the wall. He had his knees drawn up to his chest, and he rested his forehead on his knees. He looked small and miserable. Tempest sat beside him, and he never looked up.

“Tharaiyelagh,” Tempest prompted, keeping his voice gentle. Perhaps the direct approach was not best, but he needed answers. “May I see the gem?”

“What gem?” Tharaiyelagh’s legs muffled his voice. Neither of them believed him.

Tempest gave him a soft nudge. “You can just say no.”

Tharaiyelagh’s head snapped upward. “I couldn’t!” he yelped, his cheeks flaming crimson. “You are my lord’s beloved son, I would deny you nothing—”

“Don’t,” Tempest interrupted. “Don’t do that. I command you not to defer to me.”

Tharaiyelagh sent him a sly little grin. “So I should disobey you, then?”

“That’s the spirit.” Tempest nudged him again. “Did you mean it?” curiosity prompted him to ask, though he likely did not want to know. “Or were you just being diplomatic?” When Tharaiyelagh blinked at him in blank silence, he clarified: “You called me your lord’s beloved son.” Right, that was awkward. Tempest picked a stray thread from the hem of his sleeve.

“You… didn’t know?”

A creeping apprehension slithered over Tempest, a feeling that he had missed something important. “I know I’m his heir.” He picked at the sand between the flagstones beneath them. He hoped it was sand. “I assumed he made that decision because he didn’t want to fight me.”

Tharaiyelagh shook his head hard enough to smack his horns against the wall behind him. “He didn’t have to make you his heir to avoid fighting you. He did it because he saw that you would be a good prince. That you would take care of the people of—Why are you laughing?”

Tempest slung an arm around Tharaiyelagh’s shoulders. “Have I ever told you,” he said between giggles, “how I spent basically my entire mortal life avoiding being royal?”

“You didn’t!” gasped Tharaiyelagh, horrified. This was good. This felt like they might actually become friends.

“He did,” Akieryon said, reappearing from the darkened doorway he had ventured through. “The armory’s useless. A few good spear points. Everything else is ruined.” He took in their position with an arched eyebrow. Tempest grinned back at him.

“Join us,” he invited. “Relax for a minute.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

Tempest studied Akieryon’s face, wondering what emotions teemed beneath the surface. He could have asked, could have pried until Akieryon told him everything. Instead, he extended his hand and waited until Akieryon’s fingertips touched his own. “Come on,” he encouraged. “We’ll be home before you know it.”

Akieryon allowed Tempest to pull him down into the circle of his arm, but his mood did not lighten. Tempest let him stew in silence until he had made up his mind to speak. He always did.

“Home,” Akieryon murmured at length. “Shouldn’t that be Seyzharel?”

“What? No.” Tempest gave him a soft shake. “What put that idea in your head?”

“I think maybe I did,” Tharaiyelagh whispered.

Tempest groaned and slumped back against the wall. Did he deserve this? He didn’t deserve this. Somehow, he had managed to get himself caught between two shattered self esteems, and sometimes it dragged him to the tattered end of his patience. “Home,” he said, enunciating every word a bit more sharply than necessary, “is precisely where it has always been. I am not unduly stretched between two worlds. And neither of you has done anything wrong. Got it?”

Tharaiyelagh cringed, but Akieryon gave a nervous little laugh. He had been through similar conversations in the past. He just needed reminding sometimes.

“I know, I know, it’s just…” Akieryon sighed. “You make a really, really good dragon.”

“You do,” Tharaiyelagh agreed almost too quickly.

Tempest decided to accept the compliment and let the matter lie. They had enough to worry about already.

Like Tharaiyelagh’s mysterious pendant, and the strange magic that rolled off of it, magic the other two seemed not to notice.

Ragheiyont’s heart crashed against his ribs as he banked toward the immense gate. In the street below, the Lost Souls backed Seikhiel and Van-Dal against a crumbling wall. For a wild moment, Ragheiyont thought he might turn back. But what could he do to help them? With a grim set to his jaw, he continued onward.

The gate loomed ahead, an edifice of menace. Menace and corrosion. Ragheiyont slipped his injured arm from its sling and focused energy into his hand. He dipped into a dive and he hauled his arm back at the shoulder.

This was really going to hurt.

With all his momentum and all his strength, Ragheiyont slammed the wad of energy into the rust-encrusted lock. The impact screamed up his arm and through his bones, but it also jarred layers of rust from the mechanism. Spots swam before his eyes, empty black and fierce white. His vision dimmed at the edges, and he reeled, fighting to steady himself. He could not black out. He would not black out. Distantly, someone shouted his name, and Ragheiyont knew he would rather die than let his companions down.

Mustering his strength—what remained of it—Ragheiyont examined the lock. It was a monstrosity, a puzzle lock with moving parts that had not moved in centuries. Why? What lay on the other side, that the people of the city did not trust themselves not to open this door? Ragheiyont hovered a little above the lock, frowning down at it, trying to think past the throbbing in his arm. He forced his mind to follow the pins and tumblers through their intended movements. He could do it. He could open it.

Taking hold of one end of a long piece of metal, Ragheiyont braced both feet against the gate. He pulled with all his might, but nothing happened, except for the slipping of his blood-slicked grip. His wound had bled through the bandages, perhaps some time ago. It gave him an idea. Clawing at the tourniquet above his elbow, he tore it away. His blood ran freely into the mechanism, which would surely ruin it in time, but right now he needed what crude lubrication he could manage. His hand tingled and ached and throbbed, but he seized the pin again, yanked as hard as he could, and—

With a screech, the rod wrenched free. Ragheiyont tumbled backward, the piece of metal falling from his hands as he righted himself. The lock stayed in place for a moment, its parts held up by corrosion, but then gravity triumphed, and it settled into a new configuration. Ragheiyont studied it anew. Resolved, he grasped a handle beneath the lock and wrenched it a quarter turn to the left. The lock groaned, but it rotated as well. It settled again.

Ragheiyont dared to steal another glance at his companions. Seikhiel and Van-Dal had managed to maneuver themselves between the gate and the teeming throng of Lost Souls. By some dread sorcery, Van-Dal had drawn off a little of Seikhiel’s golden light into his own blades. The Lost Souls hissed as it passed through their misty forms, but regrouped almost instantly. Seikhiel faltered. With a pang too much like panic, Ragheiyont wondered how much of the angel’s strength had already been spent in feeding him. Fear galvanizing his determination, Ragheiyont turned back to the lock.

He needed to concentrate. Perhaps he had never needed a level head more than he needed it now. If Seikhiel died here…

Blinking away a sudden burning in his eyes, Ragheiyont scowled at the gates. He wrenched a knob to the left. It screamed. He screamed. He slammed a latch into place, and four bolts above the main mechanism shrieked open. Well, almost. The top one stuck halfway open. Ragheiyont flew up above it, then dropped down and dealt it a solid kick. The bolt budged, and another rod of metal fell free.

Behind him, Van-Dal growled. Ragheiyont looked, and he saw Seikhiel struggling back up from his knees. Van-Dal stood guard over him, facing the seething mass of shadows that pressed in upon them. Only burning, unblinking violet eyes might differentiate Lost Souls one from another, and it felt like they all gazed in a single direction. Past Van-Dal. At Seikhiel.

“No.” Taking up one of the fallen rods, Ragheiyont jammed it through a narrow opening in the heart of the mechanism. He braced himself, and he wrenched it sideways with every last drop of his ebbing strength. The lock groaned, but it rotated. A corkscrew piece dropped out of its center, spiraling into the soft silvery dust at Ragheiyont’s feet, and the rest of the mechanism fell open.

“Got it!” he bellowed, putting his shoulder against the gate. He pushed. Nothing happened. He struggled to muster more force, his feet sinking in the dust and his wings scrabbling the air. His blood darkened the silver sand. He had nothing left. “I can’t…” he sobbed, his moment of triumph crumbling to dust. “Please.” The gate towered over him, unlocked but unyielding. “Please help.”

Hot tears stung Ragheiyont’s eyes. To have come so far, to have dismantled that beast of a puzzle lock, only to be defeated by the towering bulk of the gate itself…

The gate shuddered with a sudden impact. Ragheiyont looked up, and for a moment his eyes refused to focus. He swallowed hope, blinked hard, and realized that Van-Dal did indeed push against the gate directly above him. His palms and forehead pressed to its weathered surface, his wings straining in the too-still air, he growled deep in his chest. Beside Ragheiyont, Seikhiel crouched low and slammed a shoulder against the gate. Together, they pushed. Ragheiyont called up what little of his strength remained, then dug deep within himself for some more. His eyes squeezed closed. His voice rang out rough and raw, foreign to his own ears.

With a squeal of rusty hinges, the gate swung too abruptly open. The three of them tumbled through into blinding sunlight. They landed in a heap, sprawled at the foot of a grassy slope. Grass? Sunlight? Underground? Wanting nothing more than to slip into dreamless sleep, Ragheiyont forced himself to lift his head, to look back toward the gate. Toward the Lost Souls.

The gate was gone. Grass stretched away as far as he could see, which, given his pained squint, was not actually all that far. Ah. He let his head fall back, let his eyes slide closed. So that was why the complicated lock. To discourage people from stranding themselves here. Wherever here was.

He could rest now. He could sleep, could drift away to oblivion. It would be so easy, lying as he did with half of Seikhiel’s weight pressing down across his chest, making every breath he drew a choice and a chore. He could just… stop. He could…

Familiar blood slicked his lips, and he fumbled blindly for Seikhiel’s open wound. Strange, how easily he had grown accustomed to feeding from the flesh. Angel blood tingled on his tongue and warmed his insides, reminding him that he did indeed want to continue breathing. A fresh tourniquet pinched down around his injured arm, and he squeaked against Seikhiel’s skin.

Poor, tired Seikhiel.

Ragheiyont started to pull back, but a hand slipped behind his head, holding him in place. “You need more,” Seikhiel said, his voice gentle but firm. Ragheiyont opened his eyes—how the sunlight stung!—and he met Seikhiel’s concerned stare. He could forget himself here, watching amber eyes watch him. He could stop worrying about his blood seeping into the thirsty earth, stop minding the illness that slept in his veins, stop fretting over his past mistakes. Maybe for a little while he could rest, could put down the mantle of Kleptomancer and just be Ragheiyont.

Such fanciful thoughts. Surely the sunlight had brought them on. Or perhaps the fever was upon him again? But no, he could feel no sign of it. Strange, how it had left him so quickly. That had never happened before, had it? Ah, but that was a thought to pursue when he had more strength. If he ever had strength again.

While Seikhiel fed him and Van-Dal bandaged his arm, Ragheiyont became aware of a sound like rushing water. Frowning, he propped himself up on his good elbow and glanced around for its source. When he found it, his eyes widened.

There, at the crest of the hill, a towering tree stretched its limbs against the boundless blue of the sky.

Chapter Text

Tempest slept—possibly for the first time since beginning this journey—entirely curled around Akieryon, as though protecting him even while deep within his own dreams. Every time Akieryon flinched or mumbled, Tempest tightened his hold on the angel. Longing clenched in Tharaiyelagh’s throat, and he looked away.

Here, alone in the dark, Tharaiyelagh could admit to himself how deep his envy ran. Everything looked so easy between the two of them. In the short time that they had known each other, Tharaiyelagh never imagined that Tempest would enjoy such casual intimacy with anyone, but here he saw the evidence before his eyes. And he wanted…

Well, Chancellor, what do you want?

If he thought he would get joined hands and warm embraces from a prince of his own, he was a fool. His most beloved lord simply did not engage in such behaviors. Tharaiyelagh’s fingertips strayed to the pendant, and in the lonely dark his thoughts returned to North. He considered the compelling way North had flirted, how it made no sense at all. Why should a dragon such as North take any interest in him? He should be flattered, if he weren’t so suspicious. After all, who else would flirt with a…

Tharaiyelagh swallowed hard, swallowed back the self derision, as he had practiced. A politician cultivated confidence; no one was born with it. Well. Maybe Ragheiyont had been, but his case was rare indeed.

What about Prince Van-Dal?

Why did traitorous thoughts always happen in the dark? Tharaiyelagh felt his cheeks warm at remembered flirtations. It hadn’t been real. How could it be? A prince of the Second Sphere simply could not want much with an orphan, a former thief, a—

Chancellor?

Well, yes, he had risen in station rather swiftly, but he had done so by hard work, out of his unflagging desire to show his devotion to his lord. Did he even want such a thing to impress Van-Dal? He shifted his shoulders, shifted his itching scabs against the fabric of his shirt. Wanting two princes for his own was bald ambition, and, given his origins, completely irrational. Besides, he craved something entirely different from Van-Dal’s solicitous glances and teasing flicks of his tail.

…Didn’t he?

Stifling a noise of frustration, Tharaiyelagh clutched at the pendant as though to throw it away from him, to cast it into the dark and turn his back on it. The stone pulsed in response to his grip. Before he could wonder at it, he found himself pulled back to that one perfect moment beneath the arch. He felt again the warmth of his lord’s skin, the heat of his breath, the scratch of fangs against his lip. In his vision, Lord Baleirithys had not pulled away from him. He had yielded. He had allowed the grubby little thief he had rescued to demand a kiss of him.

But Tharaiyelagh had always made demands, hadn’t he? Even when terrified. He gripped the stone tighter as his thoughts strayed to the first time Lord Baleirithys had asked for his blood. Tharaiyelagh had stood trembling in the antechamber, halfway certain that the death he had so narrowly escaped that morning would return then to claim him. The dagger and the chalice gleamed on the side table, but Tharaiyelagh could not make himself reach for them. He had tried to mask his dread with bravado, brazenly presenting his shoulder instead.

The way Lord Baleirithys’ breath had caught—startled, astonished, perhaps even disbelieving—the sound lived in Tharaiyelagh’s memory as though freshly heard. Then his lord had drawn him close with a light touch, first on his wrist, then his waist. Stepping forward was easier than reaching for the dagger. Are you certain? Lord Baleirithys had murmured the words directly into Tharaiyelagh’s ear, robbing him of any lingering impulse to flee. Fangs had pierced his flesh in time to the pounding of his heart. The mere memory weakened his knees afresh.

With that thought came others. Every day spent at his lord’s side yielded small reassurances: fingertips caressing his plumage, his horns, his shoulder; lingering scent marks upon his cheeks and the leading curves of his horns; murmured words of encouragement. What was he to his lord? A pet? A favorite project?

Did it even matter?

Lord Baleirithys did cherish him, and perhaps they shared a sort of intimacy after all. In quiet, private conversations, in the moments when his lord’s obsidian gaze softened to the velvet of the night sky, at those times Tharaiyelagh came fully alive. He clung to the memories, forcing the thought to warm him here in the lonely dark.

Lonely.

Right. Well, at least he had identified his problem. At Castle Seyzharel he had grown too accustomed to standing at the center of everything. He missed the swirl of activity, missed resolving matters and poring over paperwork. He missed Ceirithi’s shy smiles and Enci’s calculating glances, perhaps almost as much as he missed Lord Baleirithys himself.

Tharaiyelagh suffered a desperate dose of homesickness. He nibbled the inside of his own lip just for a reassuring taste of blood, much like a frightened child might, and he stared away into the dark. Had he ever felt homesick before? Hardly. What good would it have done him to miss the caves of his childhood? There he’d had nothing but Ragheiyont, and even Ragheiyont had abandoned him eventually.

Someday soon, Tharaiyelagh resolved, he would make his brother tell him why.

Chaighan reported for duty on the southwestern wall patrol, his first watch since retrieving the castle’s two newest residents. Baaz and Gavi. To his everlasting relief, Lord Baleirithys had welcomed Gavi, and even commended Chaighan for recovering another dragon. Half-dragon. Many people would make that distinction, but  not the prince.

“The hero returns.” Achlii, who was reporting for the southern leg of the watch, grinned and gave him a teasing salute. “How does it feel to walk among ordinary dragonfolk again?”

Chaighan toyed with the notion of a flippant reply. Instead, he turned and he gazed out across the scrubby plains. “It feels like home,” he said quietly. What else had ever felt like home to him?

“That girl you brought,” Achlii pried, “the one in the kitchens—”

“Her name is Gavi.”

“Right. Gavi.” Achlii’s grin broadened. “Does she bite?”

“Dare to dream,” Chaighan muttered before he could stop himself. Then, with a wry twist to his lips, he shook his head. “Don’t push her, though. She’s a former slave.” Like me.

“Oooh, protective?” Achlii gave Chaighan’s shoulder a playful nudge. In no mood to play, Chaighan simply pointed.

In the sky, two dragons winged swiftly toward them. Chaighan squinted, and as the two drew nearer, he made out the whiplike motion of long tails trailing after. Visitors from the Second Sphere. He looked to Achlii, who gave a slight nod. They should greet their guests.

A gust of wind caught them as they leapt skyward, tossing them in the direction of the visitors. Nearer now, Chaighan could see that they wore the smart black uniforms of Prince Van-Dal’s personal guard. Their masks hung loose at their throats, signaling a friendly visit. Small mercies. Chaighan kept his hands clear of his weapons.

“Well met, Seyzharel!” called out the nearer of the two. Her voice, pitched like a song, carried over the wind. Chaighan saluted, but waited until they had drawn a little nearer to return the greeting. The four guards circled one another in tight formation.

“What brings us guests from the Second Sphere?” Achlii gave the apparent leader of the two an appreciative eye. She acknowledged it with a haughty toss of her head.

“We need a word with our lord.”

Well, that presented a problem. “Prince Van-Dal is not currently in residence,” Chaighan informed them.

“What?” The two guards from the Second Sphere back-winged, coming to hover. “He said he would be here.”

Chaighan and Achlii exchanged a glance. How much information could they freely share? “He ventured forth with Lord Tempest,” Chaighan said. “They are expected to return soon.”

“That’s not fair!” wailed the spokesdragon, her professionalism shattered. “I want to play with Prince Tempest!”

“I’m sure you do,” her partner remarked dryly.

“I wouldn’t maul him much—“

“I swear, sister mine, you are going to cause an international crisis.”

Chaighan cleared his throat, and both siblings turned their most guileless expressions toward him. “If we should see your lord before you do,” he said, “what would you like for us to tell him?”

The long-suffering brother made a gesture of surrender. “Go on, Tamn.” 

At that, Tamn puffed out her chest and cleared her throat. “‘He is to return home at once,'” she growled, in a clear imitation of someone else. Then, in her own voice she added, “The tremors, you see. Our king is most displeased, especially since the damage unleashed—”

“Tamn!”

“Right, right, details not necessary.” She flashed a bright, pointy grin at the Seyzharel guards. “So many pretty boys in this Sphere. It’s such a shame we can’t stay.”

Chaighan promised to deliver the message when the princes returned. The guards saluted each other a final time, then parted ways, with Tamn casting an appreciative glance behind her. Achlii gave her a cheeky little wave.

“What do you make of that?” Achlii said as they returned to their post on the wall. Chaighan gave a grim shake of his head.

Certainly nothing good.

The breeze tossed the branches of the tree against the impossible blue of the sky. Here its feathery needles danced, there its soft bark flashed russet in the sun. Ragheiyont gawked. He had seldom even seen scrubby shrubs that could barely qualify as trees. To stand before one of such grandeur made him feel small.

“Don’t touch it.”

Seikhiel’s voice jolted him out of his stupor of awe, and Ragheiyont realized that he had shuffled more than halfway up the hill toward the tree. “Learned my lesson, didn’t I?” He waved his bandaged arm. It twinged in reply, and he ground his teeth against the fresh pain.

“I don’t know.” Van-Dal sounded amused. “Have you?”

Ragheiyont harrumphed and flopped down on the grass beneath the branches of tree. Sunlight winked in and out between the needles far above. “Ain’t touchin’ that,” he grumbled, though he burned with curiosity. If he still had his Wardbreaker, maybe. “Sacred, isn’t it? I’m not stupid.”

A faint shuff at his side surprised him, and Ragheiyont turned his head to see Van-Dal sitting down, wings slightly raised to catch the sunlight. “Not stupid,” he agreed, his voice soft, almost wistful. “But perhaps a bit reckless.”

Ragheiyont followed the direction of Van-Dal’s gaze to where Seikhiel inspected a curiously rectangular pond at the foot of the hill. He propped himself up on his left elbow. “Never much mattered before,” he muttered. It mattered now, so much more than he ever could have imagined. Before, nobody had cared whether he lived or died. But now? He almost shook his head. How could he waste all of Seikhiel’s effort to keep him alive? Ungracious, that’s what that was.

“I’m sure it always mattered to Tharaiyelagh,” Van-Dal said quietly, as though hearing Ragheiyont’s thoughts.

“Tarali’s better off without me. Livin’ in a palace, wearin’ nice clothes, gettin’ fed regular.” Ragheiyont slanted a sly smile toward Van-Dal. “Catchin’ the eye of a prince.”

Van-Dal’s tail lashed in the low grasses. “None of that means he doesn’t care for his own brother,” he growled.

Having struck something of an exposed nerve, Ragheiyont turned away and focused on watching Seikhiel. Seikhiel who had apparently deemed the water safe. He filled their canteens, then carefully set aside his weapons, unbraided his hair, and began washing up. Perhaps watching Seikhiel was a bad plan after all.

Ragheiyont fell back flat on the grass. He squashed his eyes tightly closed, but he could still see the water glistening over Seikhiel’s golden skin. Something in his chest squeezed too tight, painfully tight, and he forced slow breaths past it. Was he dying? Had he poisoned himself by consuming too much angel blood?

“Raya.” Sorrow undercut Van-Dal’s voice, like an otherwise pleasant wind that tasted of storms to come. “When this business is ended, I can help you find a Clutch to join.”

What did that even mean? Nothing good, judging by the sound of Van-Dal’s voice. Ragheiyont’s eyes snapped open, and he found himself staring at Seikhiel again. “Why would I want that?”

“Because dragons aren’t meant to be solitary.”

At the foot of the hill, Seikhiel squeezed water from his hair and began to twist it into a fresh plait. “I’m not lonely.” Not right now. He knew the feeling would never last, but for the moment he could pretend. Anyway, would he even live long enough to leave this place?

Van-Dal sighed. “Perhaps not, but now you’ve grown accustomed to having people nearby. What will you do when we’ve gone home?”

Home. The word twisted in Ragheiyont like a shard of Wardbreaker. He swallowed the ache inside him. “I’ll figure it out,” he insisted, perfectly aware how uncertain he sounded.

“I can help you,” Van-Dal repeated. He stood as Seikhiel started up the slope, and he headed down to take his own turn at washing.

Ragheiyont sat up to watch Seikhiel climb the last few strides to him. “Heyo,” he said, cringing inwardly at how weak his voice sounded.

Seikhiel knelt at his side. “I’ve never seen this much quillwort in one place,” he remarked in a conversational tone as he began loosening the ties of Ragheiyont’s shirt.

“Um…” Ragheiyont fumbled for basic comprehension. “What.” Yes, good. Brilliant.

“Quillwort.” Seikhiel brushed one hand over the grass. Not grass, apparently. “Technically, these are tiny trees.” He eased Ragheiyont out of his shirt, then took a wet rag—not blue; where had it come from?—and gently scrubbed dried blood from his skin. There was a lot of it. The dark of the caverns had concealed much. His cheeks burning, Ragheiyont looked away.

When Seikhiel had finished the task at hand, he took out another, softer cloth. This one smelled faintly of his well-maintained swords. When he touched it to Ragheiyont’s plumage, Ragheiyont flinched away from him. Seikhiel hesitated. Ragheiyont gave him a wary look. Where had an angel—a Demonslayer—learned the proper way to groom dragon plumage?

“Ah, may I?” Why did Seikhiel seem a little embarrassed?

Ragheiyont lifted his bandaged arm. “Might as well, jo.” He forced a grin. “I won’t be any good at it for a bit yet.”

Seikhiel leaned forward again to smooth and shine Ragheiyont’s plumage. He did it well, starting and the top and working the oils downward. Ragheiyont gazed up into warm amber eyes, and something wrenched deep inside him.

This.

This felt like home.

A ruined city broke the monotony of the inhospitable plains. The two guards cut a wide circle around it, making for one particular crumbling watchtower, in a roundabout way. For all her brash and intemperate nature, Tamn knew how to make travel between Spheres an inconspicuous affair.

Which is why it startled her to see someone poking around the site of their doorway home.

Both guards pulled up short, hovering, observing the intruder. He wore a beautiful blue uniform coat, and he carried a small glowing object in his cupped palm. He looked unhappy. Tamn glanced at her brother, weighing the consequences of engaging without orders.

“Don’t—” Rhel began, but Tamn had already tucked her wings close, dropping into a swift dive. Of course she had. Rhel could only follow, half-fastening his mask as he went. If his sister wanted a fight, he had her back. Always.

Tamn hailed the stranger, who tucked the glowing object away in his pocket and looked guilty. He cast furtive glances between the two guards, and some haunted shadows hung about his eyes.

“Tamn…”

She waved off his tone of concern. “Let’s see,” she said, addressing the stranger as she alighted on tiptoes. “Blue coat, three swords, dodgy look… Demonslayer?”

A muscle in the stranger’s jaw tensed.  Rhel stood a step behind his sister, easing a slim dagger from his sleeve. He liked to think Tamn would not need his help, but Lord Van-Dal demanded that his guards make no assumptions. Assumptions get people killed. The wrong people.

The Demonslayer gave a brief nod, his distrustful gaze flicking to every shadowy corner. “You’re a little far from home.”

Tamn snorted, and the sound carried across the ruined rooftops. “That depends on your perspective, doesn’t it?” She grinned a sharp grin. “What’s your name, Demonslayer?”

“I don’t think I should—”

“I’m Tamn. This is my brother, Rhel.” She gestured, giving no indication that she could produce a blade before the Demonslayer could flinch. And he most certainly seemed likely to flinch at any moment. “We’re just on our way back to our king.” She beamed disarmingly. “Nice coat.”

A scowl dragged the angel’s features downward. “A miserable life choice,” he grumbled, and Tamn pounced upon the scrap of information.

“Do you not enjoy being a Demonslayer?” She coiled the end of her tail around her ankle, determined not to let it betray her thoughts. “Is it hard, thankless work? Are you tired of this barren Hell?”

The Demonslayer glared at her. “If your portal hadn’t thrown off my tracking spell, I never would have come near this ruin.”

Tamn gave an unapologetic shrug. “What are you tracking? Perhaps we can help.”

“I doubt you can.”

I doubt we should. Rhel kicked the sole of Tamn’s boot. Not that it would do any good.

“It can’t hurt to tell us,” Tamn insisted, smiling. “Perhaps we’ve seen something.”

Again the Demonslayer glanced about, as though he expected someone to be watching them. Rhel sensed nothing, no life in this part of the city other than the three of them.

“Come on, angel,” needled Tamn.

“Araschel,” the Demonslayer snapped, then paled, inexplicably terrified that he had given them the simple courtesy of his name. He drew a shuddering breath, looked away toward the horizon, and added in a whisper, “I’m sent to find Master Seikhiel.”

Rhel sucked a sharp breath through his teeth, but Tamn never did know when to curb her tongue. “You lost him?” she blurted, astounded. “The Sword of Heaven?”

Araschel mumbled something that sounded rather like “maybe.”

How in the world did Heaven manage to misplace its best Demonslayer? Rhel thought of the recent tremors, of the stars winking out, and he did not like it, not at all.

The king would not like it either.

Chapter Text

Baleirithys glided into the archive, silks billowing behind him, icy gaze scanning the sunlit interior. Nothing changed here, he told himself. Three page boys scurried about, efficiently attending to the whims of the head archivist. Shelves stretched up, up to the vaulted ceiling high above. Tall windows admitted the afternoon sun.

Windows where he regularly stood with Tharaiyelagh.

Baleirithys tried to shake away the thought, but somehow Tharaiyelagh’s presence had imbued every corner of this great sanctum of knowledge. Tharaiyelagh studying. Tharaiyelagh researching some obscure point of court protocol. Tharaiyelagh curled on his favorite window seat with a tome of history balanced across his knees, the sunlight catching his plumage just so, gilding his horns. Tharaiyelagh filled the shadows where a frightened child used to dwell, where an unwanted prince hid from the tyrant, where a boy more ghost than dragon schemed and…

Baleirithys swallowed the memories. He stood blinking in a shaft of sunlight. If the pages had paused in their work, to admire him or to wonder at his silent presence, they had resumed their duties by now. He tilted his head back, gazing at a tall shelf that had once offered him particular refuge, and for a moment he almost saw Tharaiyelagh bounding up the ladder, eager to reach a book stowed up near the ceiling. Closing his eyes, Baleirithys drew a slow, deep breath. This would not suit. This all fell perilously close to wallowing.

When he opened his eyes again, Baleirithys had resolved not to fall into self pity, and yet he drifted toward Tharaiyelagh’s favorite window seat. He perched at the edge of the velvet cushion, settling his wings against cool marble and warm glass. From here, he could see the door, as well as several of the tables that occupied the center of the archive. He tried not to let his thoughts drift to the locked mahogany box that contained the seal of state. Tharaiyelagh would return, and soon. He had to. His absence was driving Baleirithys feral.

A flicker of movement and a rustle of fabric caught his attention. Where Tharaiyelagh should have stood, one of the page boys now bowed low before him. Like many half-dragons, this one lacked wings, and yet he still executed the gesture with grace and elegance. Hmm. Baleirithys lifted one hand, and the boy straightened.

“Speak, Tharn,” he said. He should have recognized this page without seeing his face. Ceirithi always dressed him in soft aqua tones to offset the grey-pink of his Raven complexion.

Tharn flushed with pleasure that his prince knew his name. “My lord,” he said, sounding a little breathless, “I wondered, if I may, ah, I should like to bring the Hawk prince something to read?” His blush deepened, and he dug the toes of his slippers into the plush rug beneath him.

The request warmed something in Baleirithys, driving the feral urge a little farther away. Yes, of course, Iyahi-Ila and Tharn were nearly of an age. “I welcome your suggestion.” He gave the boy a serene smile. “You may go immediately, if you’ve already selected something suitable to offer our guest.”

With another bow, Tharn made a hasty retreat. Baleirithys watched him snatch up a small stack of books as he bolted for the door, and for just a moment, the ache inside him eased a bit. He had his people, and they needed him.

It was the same thought that had sustained him throughout his darkest days. The knowledge that he carried Seyzharel’s hope for the future in his person had nourished him while he starved, chained naked to a stone floor, weak and half blind with anemia. The traumatized child he had been stirred within him, for the poor thing was never far. His heart sped its beating, and his throat constricted. Was he breathing? Was he hungry? Famished? The room dimmed, and suddenly he was desperate for light, for air, for blood…

Something at the edge of his awareness snapped taut. Baleirithys grasped blindly at it, and he discovered the thread of magic that anchored Tharaiyelagh. It gave him something to focus on. He held tight to it while he forced his breathing to slow. The thread of magic gave another tug. Falling deeper into the space where spells lived, Baleirithys followed it with caution, hand over imagined hand, never fully releasing his grip on the anchor line.

What are you doing?

Baleirithys almost snapped back into his own headspace in surprise. Whose voice was that? It growled like a landslide, yet shivered over his senses like the finest silk. Where is Tharaiyelagh? He forced himself to concentrate, and an image swam before him. Tharaiyelagh, a little distance away, wrapped up in the coils of a dragon. A serpentine dragon, not one of the dragonfolk of the lower Spheres. It lifted its great, oblong head, and it blinked luminous opalescent eyes—eyes without pupils—at Baleirithys.

Tharaiyelagh is here. Tharaiyelagh is safe. The brush-like tip of the dragon’s tail twitched. So long as he is with me, no harm shall befall him.

Savagery boiled up within Baleirithys, and he bared his teeth and growled, He is mine. The strange dragon chuckled and tossed its big, beautiful head.

Clearly. He shall return to you unharmed. The gate is near. Fear not, Prince Baleirithys. He loves none so well as you. 

The dragon stretched its neck forward and gave Baleirithys a gentle nudge with its broad snout. Baleirithys fought to stay, fought to reach Tharaiyelagh, but instead he fell back into himself. He sat blinking in the too-bright sunlight, trying to make sense of the familiar chamber, the rugs and the shelves, the tables and chairs. His pulse had slowed and his breathing had steadied. When had that happened?

Baleirithys inhaled the familiar scent of books and scrolls, of linen paper and of parchments made from split hides. He could stay a little while longer, hidden away, surrounded by Seyzharel’s past, but the past could offer him no refuge now. Without Tharaiyelagh helping him shoulder the burden of restoring his kingdom, Baleirithys had nearly twice as much work to do as usual. If he was honest about it, though, he had to admit to a certain amount of shirking in recent days. His unhelpful, turbulent moods made it so difficult to focus.

He had just persuaded himself to leave the safety of the window seat when a startling sound reached his ears. Laughter. Almost tiptoeing, his wings held close as though they might shelter him, Baleirithys followed the sound. He peered around a shelf full of legal texts, and he saw two heads bent together in study. Gavi sat with Yrich—no, not Yrich. That easy smile could only belong to Laraghn, though the two shared the same self, along with a third, an unnamed feral creature who would sooner bite Baleirithys than look at him. As Baleirithys watched, Laraghn picked up a book from the bench beside him and pointed to a passage. Haltingly, Gavi read it aloud. Ah. So Laraghn was helping her learn Dragonish.

With an odd feeling of satisfaction, Baleirithys turned away. Other matters required his attention—now overdue—but at least the newest additions to his household had begun to settle in.

The fenland had risen steadily into plains, and from there the land rolled up into hills. Three weary travelers trudged onward through the afternoon as the sun seemed to hover overhead, its position unchanged for hours. Footsore and surly, they had long since stopped trying to count the time as it passed, if pass it did. Even Atchi tired of his efforts to needle his companions, and focused merely on their uphill climb.

They crested a ridge, and Luccan came to an abrupt halt. Szearbhyn stumbled to avoid colliding with him, then peered around to see the cause. Below, a vast expanse of water glistened in the sun, obscuring their path.

“No boats,” remarked Atchi, helpful as usual.

Luccan sat down on the grassy slope and stared glumly at the water. Szearbhyn squinted at the shore, looking for a likely place to cross. The water lay still in the sunlight, apparently not part of any ocean. It had to narrow somewhere. Szearbhyn looked to Atchi, who had led them this way.

Atchi blew a breath through his nose. “We need to get a closer look.”

“I am not going in that,” announced Luccan. His lip curled, and his ears fell flat.

A tremor ran down Atchi’s tail, leaving the fur fluffed. “Fine.” His flat tone belied his words. “We shall find another way.”

Raaqiel considered slipping out after his afternoon classes again, but decided against it. The effort outweighed the reward. Instead, he packed up some papers to grade at home, locked his office door, and headed for the main entrance. Seikhiel’s course load had begun to weigh heavily upon him. How long had he been gone now? A week? Ten days? Raaqiel had almost counted them up when his old friend fell into step beside him.

“When are you going to tell me what you know?” Feriel grumbled. He looked weary, worn, as though his inner light had faded almost entirely away. Dull pewter replaced luminous silver. A sudden pang of panic caught at Raaqiel, but he batted it away. Panic was rarely useful.

“If I’m going to tell you everything I know,” he said instead, “we’re going to be here a very long time.”

It worried Raaqiel that Feriel apparently lacked the strength to give him an exasperated glance. “Seikhiel’s whereabouts,” he said, his voice flat, defeated. It stirred an ache in Raaqiel’s chest.

“I can’t tell you where he went.” Raaqiel drew a deep breath. “Not just because I do not know.” He wanted to fix it. He wanted to make Feriel light up the room again, like he used to do.

The past was dead and gone.

They walked in silence for a little while, descending the west stairs together and crossing the marble floor toward the front doors. Raaqiel almost reached for Feriel’s hand, but then a swarm of cadets burst into view. They laughed and chattered their way out into the sunlight beyond the doors, to the freedom of an afternoon with no classes, bearing Raaqiel and Feriel along in their wake. Once, the two of them had been as carefree.

Raaqiel and Feriel paused on the Academy steps, blinking in the sun while the cadets continued onward. Feriel looked away, then heaved a mighty sigh. The prim, professional lines of his posture wilted. “I can’t ask you for information while withholding it.” He dug in his pocket and produced a small golden object, something like a large coin. The image of six interlocking wings gleamed in the sunlight. “Araschel tracked Seikhiel to Seyzharel in the Fourth Sphere. Did you know that’s where he went?”

Staring at the Sigil of the Six Wings, Raaqiel gave a halfhearted shrug. “I don’t think he mentioned it, but I’m not surprised. He wears his guilt over Seyzharel on his sleeve.” So to speak.

Feriel snorted softly. “And he almost never wears sleeves,” he said, echoing Raaqiel’s thought. With great care, he tucked the Sigil away again. “How he lost his Sigil, I can’t imagine. Also, his trail simply vanishes at the castle, which bodes ill for all of us.”

“I hear the prince there is tremendously skilled at portal magics.” Raaqiel watched as a new commotion erupted across the yard. The cadets—more numerous now—flocked around Lord Michael, who basked in the attention. Together, the lot of them drifted toward the gate. “Seikhiel is doing important work,” he insisted, though he had no reason for such conviction. “But I can’t imagine where that work has taken him.” **

“Raaqiel, I can’t—”

A buzzing sound interrupted Feriel, an alarm, one Raaqiel knew well. His sword vibrated in its scabbard, a warning of imminent danger, and he reacted without thinking, shoving Feriel behind him and darting forward. Across the yard, naked steel glinted in the sun, beyond the cadets, just outside the gate, and Raaqiel would never reach them in time. He unfurled his wings, and his splendid sword Reunion came to his hand with a mere thought. He could protect the cadets, if he just—

“Lord Michael!” called a voice ragged with desperation. “A message from the Fifth Sword!”

However swiftly Raaqiel could move, Michael was faster. He slipped through the startled crowd like a fish through a stream, and by the time Raaqiel alighted at the gate, Michael and the assailant sprawled together in a heap. The archangel lifted his head, and the cadets gasped at the sight of blood dashed across his youthful face.

“Oh, no,” Feriel whispered at Raaqiel’s elbow. “Oh, Keilel, no.”

Michael’s haunted gaze fixed upon Raaqiel even as his hands pressed against the prone angel’s wound. “Get Raphael.” His voice broke upon the name. “He’s stabbed himself. I don’t—I don’t know…” He drew a shuddering breath. “Go now.”

Raaqiel saluted, then stretched his wings once more.

Feriel struggled for breath as he stared at the scene before him. The sky pressed down, too heavy, too near, and the sun blazed too hot, showing every drop of blood. Keilel’s blood. Keilel’s blood on the pavement, on Lord Michael, on his conscience… Feriel almost choked on his efforts to breathe. Then Lord Michael did the most horrifying thing he could conceive to do. Cradling Keilel in his arms, still trying to stanch the flow of blood, he looked directly at Feriel.

“Sid,” Lord Michael whispered. “I need Sid.”

It might as well have been an order. “Sir.” Feriel saluted, then turned and numbly walked back to the school.

The brick walls sheltered him from the oppressive light of the sun. What had he done? His silence had wrought this tragedy. He had stood by, doing nothing while somehow thinking he spared these poor soldiers the brunt of their commander’s wrath. He, in his arrogance, thought that he could shield them.

Not even Seikhiel could do that.

The familiar office door loomed before him, the usual messy calendar confronting him in silent reproach. How had he arrived so quickly? Had he used a spell without knowing it? Was his control so far gone? Swallowing his panic, Feriel knocked.

The door swung open. Lord Sidriel sat at his desk, his head bowed over a stack of papers. Feriel’s throat constricted at the sight of him. So ordinary. As though this wasn’t the day of Feriel’s undoing.

“Come in.” Lord Sidriel sat back. He looked up, and a small frown shadowed his face. “Feriel, what’s wrong?”

“Keilel,” Feriel managed in a hoarse whisper. “At the gate.”

Lord Sidriel’s frown deepened. “I recently processed his discharge papers.”

Yes, for an injury not sustained in battle. Feeling his stomach turn over and over, Feriel nodded. “He’s with Lord Michael. He…” Feriel’s voice failed him, and he lowered his gaze. Lord Sidriel was on his feet then, striding across the office, lifting one hand. Feriel flinched from the fingertips that reached for his arm.

“Feriel, what happened?” Lord Sidriel pitched his voice low, aiming to soothe. Feriel fought against tears. Nobody could know how close to total ruination he was.

“Keilel stabbed himself,” he whispered.

A soft mist and a swirl of feathers surrounded them, sending a shudder along Feriel’s magical senses. Archangel assistants had this ability, the power to transport themselves to their counterparts. Until this moment, Feriel had not realized how different it felt, how foreign it was to ordinary angel magic. The mist cleared and the feathers settled, leaving him once more at the edge of the growing crowd. Lord Michael looked up from Keilel’s inert form, and his wild eyed stare cut right through the heart of Feriel’s guilt.

“Cadet Commander,” Lord Sidriel said, his voice firm. “Patrol Captain.” When the two cadets presented themselves, saluting, he gave them instructions for managing the horrified onlookers, for giving Lord Michael and Keilel breathing room. If Keilel was still breathing. If.

“Feriel.”

He shied from Raaqiel’s voice, as he had done so many times recently. Lord Raphael was suddenly there, his shimmering wings mantled over Lord Michael and Keilel, shielding them from view. Not quickly enough to hide the tracks of tears on Lord Michael’s cheeks. Not quickly enough. Feriel’s every instinct told him to flee, but he had to know. He needed to see if Keilel still lived.

“He came to me about his wings,” Lord Raphael murmured, too low for most of the crowd to hear. “They were…” Feriel missed the rest, but he already knew. He could see the chains, the searching fingers, the cruel hands that sought out every joint, systematically crushing bone and sinew together. He heard the popping sound of wing joints breaking, coupled with Keilel’s screams. Turning aside, Feriel retched into a planter.

“Feriel!”

Raaqiel reached for him, but Feriel moved faster. Slipping his awareness into the space between darkness and light, he pulled a mantle of invisibility over himself. It was a simple spell, but not terribly sustainable. He had to move quickly if he meant to escape.

Gently, Lord Raphael lifted Keilel in his arms, leaving Lord Michael kneeling, bloodied and tearstained. He turned his back on the crowd, his wings slightly upraised as though to form a barrier. “Sidriel,” he said softly, “meet me at the Clinic in half an hour.” Lord Sidriel nodded once, and then Lord Raphael was gone, taking Keilel with him.

“Sid.” Lord Michael lifted his head, and his dulled stare found his assistant. “Freeze the Fifth Sword. None of them are to leave this Sphere until I know everything.” His bloodstained hands clenched into fists. “Everything.”

Blood pounded in Feriel’s ears, and he felt his spell wavering. Stretching his wings open, he sprang upward, up and out. None of them were to leave the Sphere. No escape.

They were doomed.

Chapter Text

Tharaiyelagh reflected that he had begun to feel a little too comfortable in the darkness of these buried corridors. Like home. Like the caverns where his brother had guided his first halting steps. It all felt a little claustrophobic, a little clammy and a little dusty. This time, though, he had enough to eat. For now. Until he needed blood.

He stole a sidelong glance at Tempest, who walked in silence at his side. Tempest seemed fairly unbothered by their current subterranean state. Then again, from what Tharaiyelagh had seen of him, very little ever did bother Tempest. Akieryon, on the other hand, unobtrusively hyperventilated every hour or so.

It seemed to be growing more frequent.

Tentatively, Tharaiyelagh gave him a soft nudge with his elbow. “What are you thinking about?”

Akieryon’s shallow breaths faltered, and for a moment Tharaiyelagh thought he would not answer. Then he gulped air, and he blurted, “Ten strides by seven.” After a tiny, tremulous pause, he added, “That was the size of my cell.”

“Oh.” Tharaiyelagh scuffed the toe of his boot in the ash and dust that covered the floors, now more thickly than before. “Mine was six by eight.”

“You were… You said you were a thief?”

Tharaiyelagh nodded, which probably only just showed in the dim glow of the illumination spell. “I was a child alone with no skills. My options were not great.” The corridor ended at a junction. After a glance down at his softly glowing pendant, he directed them down the path to the left. “But I was not a very good thief. The first time I got caught, they branded my right wing and then let me go. The second time, I got to stew in a cell for a little while before they took my wings. The last time, I was bound for the gallows.”

“I’m glad that didn’t go as planned,” Akieryon said, and his flat tone dragged a laugh from Tharaiyelagh.

“Me, too. Lord Baleirithys had heard of me somehow. He came to take me home.”

“Home,” Akieryon repeated in a whisper of pure longing. “Yeah. That’s…” He cleared his throat. “A merciful stranger freed me. The next person I met was Tempest. He recognized that I had nowhere to go. He took me home.”

In the dark, the two of them shared a smile of understanding.

“Tharaiyelagh.” Tempest’s voice cut through their conversation. “I think perhaps your bauble is broken.”

Tharaiyelagh looked around, and he saw that the corridor had ended in an oval chamber. Sheets of basalt hung like jagged, sagging curtains at odd intervals, and a sort of mural might have decorated the far wall.

“It’s not broken,” Akieryon said in a tone that suggested he thought Tempest was merely being contrary. “I think we just need a thief to open the way.” He nudged Tharaiyelagh forward.

A thief. Right.

Concentrating on the task before him, Tharaiyelagh shuffled toward the far wall. Paint had faded and flaked away, he realized, leaving only scratches on plaster. A fresco, once. Leaning closer, Tharaiyelagh could just make out some of the same ancient Dragonish writing that had adorned the archway a lifetime or so ago. Holding the light high, Akieryon stepped up behind him and gave his shoulder a brief squeeze.

“You can do this,” he said softly. “I know you can.”

Tempest paced the perimeter of the chamber, but after a few minutes Tharaiyelagh stopped noticing. He concentrated on the characters scratched into the plaster. They swirled into the decayed design, making them all the more difficult to read. Taking his notebook from his pocket, Tharaiyelagh copied the topmost words first, as the inscription almost certainly began there.

“Fire,” he muttered, “but an archaic form. A venerative. And… and glass? That doesn’t make any sense at all.” His fingertips brushed against the wall, and a rumble shuddered through the floor, unsettling dust as it went.

“Don’t touch it!” Akieryon gasped, a little too late.

“Tharaiyelagh…”

At the note of warning in Tempest’s voice, he turned. Something thundered down the corridor toward them. Something immense. Tempest lifted one hand, and a barrier shimmered, barely visible, at the mouth of the corridor.

“Right.” Tharaiyelagh returned to the inscription.

Their survival depended on it.

Ragheiyont lay on his back, his head pointed toward the enormous tree, his feet downhill. His wings stretched to either side, warming in the sunlight that filtered through the branches overhead. He felt almost at peace here, and he supposed it would not be a bad place to die.

Maybe that last thought was just the headache.

It had started as a dull ache, crawling up his spine and taking root in the back of his skull. By now it had fully established itself, blooming into a pinching behind his eyes and a throbbing where his head rested on the ground. He knew what it meant, the gradual intensifying of his pain, but still he hesitated to mention it. Even the mighty Sword of Heaven could not feed him forever.

A faint smile twisted at his lips. Sword of Heaven. What a silly, pretentious, ominous thing to call someone so kind. Someone so gentle. Someone whose rare smiles felt like a down blanket.

Ugh. What fanciful nonsense.

Ragheiyont heaved a sigh, and realized that he had not drawn a decent breath in a bit too long. Closing his eyes, he tried to count the pace of his breathing, but the throbbing of his arm distracted him. His body felt heavy, and his fingers and toes seemed far away. Perhaps he could simply sink into the earth and rest tangled in the roots of the very tree that imprisoned Bel…

The quillworts beside him stirred, and he slit one eye open to find Seikhiel sitting at his side. Of course it was Seikhiel. Van-Dal was decent enough, in his own way, but he would certainly prefer to spend his time with Tharaiyelagh.

“You need to eat.” With gentle hands, Seikhiel eased Ragheiyont upright. Eat, not feed. Ragheiyont wondered if Seikhiel had finally given up on keeping him alive.

“Where’s our prince friend?” Craning his neck, Ragheiyont peered around.

“He’s down at the pond again.” Seikhiel rummaged around in one of their battered packs. “He’ll join us when he’s finished.”

“Finished with what?” Ragheiyont looked, and he saw Van-Dal at the edge of the water, moving his body slowly through a series of exercises, a warrior’s art designed to keep him limber, strong, and agile. Ragheiyont forced a grin. “Ah. Sexy, eh?” He tried to nudge Seikhiel, but he missed.

“I really wouldn’t know.” Seikhiel handed Ragheiyont a lump of bread as Ragheiyont’s spirits, such as they were, fell.

“Not attracted to men? Or dragons? Or… or…?” Or demons. Swallowing his disappointment, Ragheiyont picked at the bread crust. He had no reason to feel so crestfallen, he told himself. After all, he only wanted Seikhiel’s attention at all because of the blood shared between them.

“Or anyone, really.” The softness of Seikhiel’s voice startled Ragheiyont, and he turned to see the most feared Demonslayer in Heaven sitting with both knees drawn up to his chest, his face tilted to the sky. He looked too vulnerable.

“No one, huh?” He had no reason to care, no reason to want to be the exception. “Is that an angel thing?”

Seikhiel snorted in that way that suggested he was thinking of someone specific. “Distinctly not.”

“Oh. Well, do you—”

“Are you going to eat that or destroy it?” Seikhiel interrupted, and Ragheiyont looked down to see shredded bread in his lap. “It’s the last we’ve got. We’re on to hardtack later, I’m afraid.”

Frowning, Ragheiyont pushed the undisturbed bit of bread back into Seikhiel’s hand, then started picking up the pieces he had torn apart. “If it’s the last,” he said, “then we should share it, right?”

Seikhiel gave him a soft smile, and for a moment Ragheiyont felt stupidly giddy. It must be the anemia, he told himself. There was no other reason for the hollow hammering of his heart and the unsteady spinning of his head. None at all.

The chamber shuddered and jolted, throwing blocks of stone from the ceiling. Tempest stood with one hand raised toward the doorway, holding his barrier there, and the other extended into the room, using another spell to keep the ash and dust settled. Wave after wave of something dark and hot and at least somewhat liquid dashed against the barrier spell, choking the corridor. Tharaiyelagh struggled to focus on the inscription. Tempest would need blood, and soon. No, focus!

As Akieryon moved away from him, toward Tempest, he held the light higher and made it shine brighter. The stale air in the chamber had already heated past unbearable, and Tharaiyelagh dragged his sleeve across his brow. “City,” he said, “I think. It’s got a formal modifier, so maybe some sort of capitol. Then a possessive, and heart with a venerative. Burn and be made glass?” If he had more time, he could make sense of the phrasing, ornate and archaic as it was. But time was the commodity he lacked.

Something solid and heavy struck the barrier, and Tempest groaned with the strain of holding it. Tharaiyelagh spared him a glance, and he saw Akieryon at his side, one arm around his waist, supporting him. Another wave of solid matter battered the barrier, and Tempest’s wings shimmered into view. Tharaiyelagh gulped a breath of the scalding air. He had to decipher this inscription.

“Seek you true north.” Huh. Though the grammar was archaic, that phrase parsed easily enough. Beneath it lay an indentation, about the size of a thumbprint.

“We’ve been going west!” Akieryon yelped. Tempest staggered a little, and the corridor had taken on an ominous orange glow.

“North,” Tharaiyelagh repeated, his brain turning over and over. “North!” Snatching the pendant from his neck, he pressed it into the indentation.

The wall peeled open like the curling of old parchment.

Seikhiel and Ragheiyont sat together, nibbling at their last bites of bread. Twice Ragheiyont had tried to give Seikhiel extra, though they had just enough to share. Seikhiel decided against chiding him for the attempts. When no bread remained, he pushed his wings from invisible energy to solid matter, and he lifted them to shield Ragheiyont from view, which was unnecessary but still felt right. He drew a blade and pressed it against his arm, in the same place he had already cut many times before. Ragheiyont’s hand over his own stopped him.

“Don’t waste your strength.” Ragheiyont met and held his gaze, giving him a heartbreaking little smile. “I know you can’t feed me much longer. If no one else shows up, I’m done.” His stare hardened. “I won’t take you with me.”

Dread squeezed Seikhiel around the ribs and turned his stomach. He had hoped to avoid this moment, but here they were. Setting aside his weapon, he knelt closer to Ragheiyont, whose gaze never wavered. “I won’t let you die.”

“That’s not up to you. An’ you’ve done more than enough already t’make up for your guilt or whatever.” For just a moment, Ragheiyont glanced away, glanced at the gold-white feathers of Seikhiel’s wings. “It’s enough, y’know. The way you’ve looked after me. All kind and patient and…” He blinked away a faint sheen of tears. “I guess it’s probably just that I’ve been on my own so much and all but…” He drew a shuddering breath, sagged a little, then concluded in a hoarse whisper, “Woulda stolen ya if I could, jo.”

Stolen? Seikhiel considered how Ragheiyont’s swift smile and dancing blue eyes could bring light into his darkened world. He studied the way Ragheiyont’s current low spirits made him feel, as though an unseen fist slowly crushed the air from his lungs. He swallowed his uncertainty. If Ragheiyont was dying—and he had to acknowledge the possibility—then he needed to hear this. “I’m… not entirely certain you haven’t.”

Ragheiyont’s fingers curled through the baldric where it crossed Seikhiel’s chest. His grip tightened, and he tugged. Seikhiel yielded. Ragheiyont’s face tilted to meet his, and though he knew he should not, Seikhiel allowed it. He allowed their lips to meet.

Seikhiel had been young and curious once. Rather against wisdom, he had explored kissing in the past, largely to the same effect. Warm lips, damp lips. Dull and unnecessary. Today he had no expectations beyond offering Ragheiyont some small comfort. If Ragheiyont decided to survive…

The sting of a sharp fang scratching against his lip startled him. Seikhiel gasped and flinched, but Ragheiyont moved with him, clinging all the more tightly as the taste of blood blossomed between them. His tongue flicked against Seikhiel’s lip, and he made tiny noises in the back of his nose, noises of intense need. His wings angled forward, and the claws on their upper joints gripped Seikhiel’s shoulders with bruising force.

The dragons were right. Sharing blood could be shockingly intimate.

For a dizzying moment, Seikhiel wanted to wrap his arms and wings around Ragheiyont, to hold him tight, to kiss him until neither of them had any strength left. Instead, he broke away. With a strangled little sob, Ragheiyont slumped face-first against Seikhiel’s chest. Waves of regret washed over Seikhiel.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, not trusting his voice just yet. His heart seemed to jolt around inside him, disrupting his lungs and his stomach. Was that what people called a good kiss? Was something wrong with him? Well, probably, but he had a more immediate problem. “I’m so sorry.” If word got back to Heaven that Seikhiel had kissed a demon, Ragheiyont’s life would be worth less than a sack of soggy turnip greens. Worse still, he had a faint inkling why he had enjoyed the kiss. Because of the blood? Nothing else made sense.

Ridiculous. Absolutely absurd.

“No, no, no,” Ragheiyont was saying, his voice muffled and a little strained. Seikhiel tried to push him back, to look at him and assess the damage done by his lapse in judgment, but Ragheiyont clung like a limpet. “No, y’ain’t sorry, ‘cuz sorry means”—here he gave a wet sniffle—”sorry means y’don’t mean t’do it again.”

Seikhiel gave the matter serious consideration. Would he kiss Ragheiyont again? In a better world, a world without peril to the young dragon, probably. The experience had stirred questions in him. Questions, and anomalies. For now, though, he had to make Ragheiyont’s safety his priority.

“Sorry,” he said gently, “means that you’re in greater danger for our having kissed.” He tried to brush Ragheiyont’s plumage back from his face, but Ragheiyont ducked his head away from the touch. “You mustn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t bear it if he—if someone hunted you because of me.”

“C’n take care of myself,” Ragheiyont mumbled sullenly, but he sat back and he scrubbed at his face with his sleeve. “Y’really do care.” He sounded so mystified. Seikhiel wanted nothing so much as to bundle him up and take him home for a soothing cup of tea. Did dragons enjoy tea? It seemed he ought to know the answer to that.

“Of course I care.” Not yet ready to give up on feeding Ragheiyont, Seikhiel settled his wings comfortably against his back.

A little spark of something wicked glinted in Ragheiyont’s eyes. Perhaps a hint of a renewed will to live? Ragheiyont slouched to the side and grinned at Seikhiel. “But I’m not sexy.”

“Not even a little bit.”

Ragheiyont was silent for a while, long enough that Seikhiel worried that he had hurt his feelings. Dragons were known for their vanity, after all. But then Ragheiyont nodded in a slow, thoughtful way. “That’s better, I think,” he said, at least partly to himself. “Caring is better than acknowledging how undeniably gorgeous I am.”

How should he respond to that? He could laugh it off, or he could turn it into another encouragement for Ragheiyont to feed, to take a little blood—a thought which suddenly brought warm feelings in his chest and a swirl of confusion in his head. Seikhiel looked at Ragheiyont, and Ragheiyont gave him a sly little smile.

Seikhiel opened his mouth to reply, but a low rumbling sound stopped his words. He sprang up to a crouch, short sword in hand, ready to protect Ragheiyont. The ground beneath him shuddered, and at the foot of the hill the air seemed to split open. A gate! Someone stumbled through, trying to shield his eyes from the sudden sunlight.

“Tarali!” Ragheiyont started to his feet, no doubt to run to his brother, but he lost his footing and sank back to his knees. Tharaiyelagh’s head snapped around toward the sound of his brother’s voice. Clouds of ash and noxious gas billowed through the gateway after him, and then two figures shot through, one carrying the other, wings straining under the effort. Red hot stones pelted the hillside, sinking into the soil and igniting small patches of quillwort. Magma poured out of the gate just as it slammed closed.

Akieryon and Tempest landed in a tumbled heap, but immediately Tempest struggled to his feet again. He lifted one hand, and water swirled up out of the pond, improbably dousing the lava and all of the small fires. Then he collapsed like a discarded doll.

“Tempest!” Akieryon threw himself across the prone prince. He bared his shoulder and guided Tempest’s fangs to his exposed flesh. Everyone looked away.

Seikhiel started down the hill, and Ragheiyont stumbled along close by his side. When he saw Tharaiyelagh leap joyously into Van-Dal’s arms, Ragheiyont gave a short laugh. “I thought he was in love with the other prince. The one still in Seyzharel.”

“Baleirithys?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

Van-Dal scooped Tharaiyelagh up in his arms and squeezed him tight. “You smell of volcano,” he declared, right before depositing Tharaiyelagh in the pond.

Tharaiyelagh came up sputtering and flinging water everywhere, but he beamed with the same sunny smile as his brother. “But where—” His gaze fell upon Seikhiel and Ragheiyont, taking in their hands that had joined at some point that Seikhiel could not remember, as well as Ragheiyont’s unhealthy pallor and his bandaged arm already starting to bleed through again. It felt like his sharp eyes missed nothing, and in an instant he splashed back out of the pond.

“Rahi!” Tharaiyelagh ran to his brother, shedding droplets as he went. He seized Ragheiyont in a soggy and still sulfurous embrace. “You must tell me everything.”

There was one detail Seikhiel fervently hoped he would omit.

Feriel stood amid the hanging crystals, not really hearing their soft chiming in the evening breeze. His time ran short, his one and only chance to hide the evidence, and yet somehow he had come here. The Memorial Oak stood before him in silent reproach.

He thrust his hand into his pocket, and his fingers closed around the Sigil. Seikhiel’s Sigil. The unyielding metal bit into his skin as his grip tightened. His eyes found the only crystal that mattered.

Go on. Tell me that I’ve done everything wrong and I deserve my fate.

The crystal did no such thing. It merely swung in a small circle, twisting in the breeze. The ornate letter L caught the light from time to time, and Feriel felt worse than ever.

I can’t set anything to rights. I’m too far lost for that. I’ve watched too many good soldiers meet gruesome fates. I’ve failed. In the end, I can accomplish nothing. I belong here with you, my dearest friend.

He could flee, of course, but that would only draw attention. And then what would become of Seikhiel when he did return? Feriel had never doubted that he would return. Men like Seikhiel would never desert. Not while he still felt like he had something to protect.

The breeze shivered through the branches of the Oak, and Feriel’s grip tightened on the Sigil. He still had to get rid of the thing. Standing here feeling sorry for himself would accomplish nothing. He drew a deep breath, and he took a step back.

“Feriel.”

Every muscle in his body tensed. His blood chilled and his breath stilled. This was it. His doom had come. Forcing a mask of calm on his face, Feriel turned and gave his commanding officer a brief salute.

“Curious that I should find you here.” Niseriel wore that serene expression that meant that he was furious. The corners of his icy eyes squeezed as though he might smile. “Contemplating young Keilel’s rash actions?”

Feriel unclenched his fist, but kept his hand in his pocket. “I saw it happen, sir.” Saw every bloody moment of it.

“It’s a tragedy.” Turning away, Niseriel gestured with a small tilt of his head. “Come. We have much to do.”

“But what can we do?” Feriel fell into step beside Niseriel too easily. Shame slithered around inside him and settled at the pit of his stomach. “Lord Michael said—”

“I know what he said,” Niseriel scoffed. “It doesn’t matter. He knows nothing.” He slid an arm around Feriel’s shoulders and tugged him close. “You,” he breathed against Feriel’s ear, “will use your precious magic to bring my Seikhiel back to me.”

Feriel shivered in the fading light of day.

Chapter Text

“Come on!” Szearbhyn called to Luccan. “You’ll barely even get wet!”

Luccan bared his teeth and hissed. The swamp had been plenty wet enough. His boots still squished with every step, and now Atchi led them to the patchiest excuse for a bridge he had ever seen in all his long life. Sand bars and muddy little islands all strung between stretches of rotting plank bridges like a pearl necklace of misery, the whole thing lying almost flush with the surface of the water.

“Quit being such a pissy kitty.” Atchi linked arms with him and dragged him toward the abomination bridge. “This is the way we need to go.”

Perhaps.

But none of them could make him like it.

Ragheiyont looked down at the cup of blood, and he gently swirled it. Tharaiyelagh stared at him, trying to think of an appropriate reaction. He had worried so much about his sore leg and the dark underground and North, all while his own brother had been fighting for his life, trying not to bleed to death. Ashamed, he looked down at his clenched fists. He needed to be a better brother to Ragheiyont. He owed it to him to try.

“So…” He heard the grin in his brother’s voice before he ever looked up. “You and Van-Dal. What’s that about?”

The question startled Tharaiyelagh. Heat rose in his cheeks even as he shook his head. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“I thought you were in love with that other prince,” Ragheiyont said bluntly, baffling his brother. Tharaiyelagh tilted his head, trying to read his expression, which only seemed gently mocking.

“I’m not sure what that has to do with anything.”

“You leapt on Van-Dal the moment you saw him.”

“You’re not making any sense.” Tharaiyelagh picked at the small green shoots that covered the hillside. Was this grass? Documents from other Spheres described the stuff, and this seemed similar. He looked up, and he saw Ragheiyont regarding him with an expectant arch to one eyebrow. What more could Tharaiyelagh tell him? “Lord Van-Dal is a trusted friend to Lord Baleirithys. He’s…” Tharaiyelagh sighed. “Alright, yes, he’s a terrible flirt, but I assure you everything is strictly professional between us.”

Ragheiyont snorted. “He’s not a flirt.”

“What.”

When Tharaiyelagh saw the sincerity on his brother’s face, he felt the world constricting and falling away at the same time. No, no, that wasn’t right. Tharaiyelagh took slow, careful breaths, counting each one out to disguise his distress. No, Ragheiyont had to be mistaken.

“I’ve just spent I-don’t-know-how-many days alone with him and Seikhiel.” Ragheiyont gestured broadly, the empty cup still in his hand. “The prince is not a flirt.”

Seeing an opportunity to change the subject, which had become so dreadful so suddenly, Tharaiyelagh said, “Yes, do tell me how you came to hold Seikhiel’s hand. I’m dying to hear it.”

Ragheiyont blushed, which, given his anemic state, was unlikely. “Stealth,” he said. “He took his hand back as soon as he noticed.”

“No.” Tharaiyelagh found himself enjoying his brother’s discomfort, which was a little mean of him. “He took his hand back when I noticed.”

“Well.” Ragheiyont picked at the edge of his bandages. “It’s nothing. Obviously. I mean, he’s a Demonslayer, an’ he’s not even attracted to me. He said so. Right before I kissed him.”

“You what!” Tharaiyelagh gasped, horrified and delighted in equal measure. Ragheiyont had always been so bold, and Tharaiyelagh envied him for it.

“Yeah, I shouldn’ta done it.” Looking oddly miserable, Ragheiyont shrugged. “I was sure I was dying an’ I figured nothing really mattered anymore an’ he let me? Dunno why.”

Reaching across, Tharaiyelagh squeezed Ragheiyont’s good hand. “You’re not dying. We won’t let that happen.”

“‘S long’s that smith in there fixes it,” Ragheiyont muttered, jerking his head just slightly toward the immense tree at the top of the hill. Tharaiyelagh frowned at its gently swaying branches. Something about it bothered him, but the longer he stared at the tree, the more his back itched, in a sharp, relentless sort of way. Shaking his head, he looked away.

“I’m surprised you haven’t tried to open it yet.”

Ragheiyont scoffed. “Ain’t that stupid, am I? In this state, that thing’d destroy me. I can feel it from here.”

“But what if…” An idea had been brewing in the back of Tharaiyelagh’s mind, and now it bubbled over. “Here, give me that dagger.”

Ragheiyont hesitated, then handed him a little cloth packet. Tharaiyelagh peeled it open. Inside lay shards of blade and a battered old hilt. Finishing around in his pockets, Tharaiyelagh produced a pair of magnifying spectacles he usually used for examining ancient manuscripts. He settled them over the bridge of his nose, and he got to work.

He spread the cloth out over a flat stone he had found earlier and repurposed as a table. Now he hunched over it, slowly, meticulously realigning the broken dagger, piecing it together like a puzzle. Ragheiyont spoke to him, but the words meant nothing, for they failed to penetrate his wall of focus. Using the tips of his claws and the back of a stylus he had found in another pocket, he nudged tiny bits of metal across the rumpled cloth until all the pieces fit together. Satisfied, he sat back, blinking as though waking from a dream.

He had an audience.

Seeing Van-Dal and Seikhiel beside Ragheiyont, Tharaiyelagh glanced away. “I, ah, I wanted to see if this would help. If putting the pieces in place would slow the bleeding.” His cheeks reddened too easily, and he resented it a little. Why should he feel foolish for having an idea?

“You must be good at your job.”

Startled by Seikhiel’s voice, Tharaiyelagh looked back, and saw only sincerity. Van-Dal was nodding.

“He is,” he said. “He’s exactly what Seyzharel needs.”

The praise made him even more uncomfortable than the assumption that they found his idea silly. Tharaiyelagh shrugged one shoulder and tried to avoid Van-Dal’s gaze. “I just…”

“You looked for a solution, even a partial or a temporary one.”

“Doesn’t everyone do that?”

Van-Dal and Seikhiel exchanged a glance that strongly suggested otherwise. “Let’s have a look,” Seikhiel said. Gently, so gently, he lifted Ragheiyont’s injured arm and unwound the bandage. The skin beneath looked cracked, shattered, red and angry, but it did not bleed freely. Instead, a clear, red-tinted fluid seeped from the cracks. Van-Dal nodded.

“That’s much better,” he said. “We can’t travel like this, but for now it’s an improvement.”

Tharaiyelagh scrounged a roll of clean bandages out of a pack, then handed them to Seikhiel. Van-Dal reached over, plucked the spectacles from Tharaiyelagh’s nose, and handed them back to him. Trying to avoid the weight of his gaze, Tharaiyelagh tucked the spectacles and the stylus back into his pockets. “How’s Lord Tempest?”

“Resting.” Van-Dal sounded amused. “Akieryon is looking after him. That was…” He drew a short, rueful breath. “That was a terrifying amount of magic.”

“We never would have survived otherwise—Oh!” Suddenly remembering, and flushing with shame at having forgotten, Tharaiyelagh plucked at the silken cords that tied Van-Dal’s sleeves back out of his way. “Do you have extra of this? Can you spare a bit? Ah, that is…”

Without question, without hesitation, Van-Dal took a small dagger and cut a length of cord from his own clothing. He handed it over, then watched intently as Tharaiyelagh took off the pendant, slipped it from the chain, and threaded the silk cord through the bail at the top of the opal. Avoiding his gaze, Tharaiyelagh handed him the gold chain.

“Shouldn’t you give this to your own prince?”

“I’m tired of carrying it.” Belatedly, Tharaiyelagh realized he may have meant Tempest. His fingers fumbled with knotting the cord around his own neck. Making an amused sound, Van-Dal leaned close, too close.

“Here, let me…” His fingertips slid up the cord, over Tharaiyelagh’s hands. He tied a deft knot. His thumb brushed against Tharaiyelagh’s ear as he sat back again.

Flirting.

Tharaiyelagh glanced toward his brother, who sat grinning at him. Tharaiyelagh scowled, but not for long. The tree, and the itching of his back pulled at his attention. “How do you suppose it opens?”

“With a fight,” Van-Dal said, his voice quiet, his expression grim.

“Highness, are you well?” Queen Apparent MiiSehlenn’s voice carried a note of impatience, a demand that Baleirithys take the proceedings more seriously.

He inclined his head with the appropriate grace, a gesture designed to conceal the turmoil within. “I am,” he lied. “Your Majesty is kind to consider my health.” He was not anything resembling well. The image of Tharaiyelagh wrapped in the coils of a serpent-dragon tormented him, and young Iyahi-Ila had recently cried out in his sleep about fire and blood and a terrible, terrible tree. Dread crept through Baleirithys’ veins and nestled in his heart, freezing it, squeezing out all impulses but the feral, savage ones that lurked ever beneath his veneer of civility.

The starving child he had been cried out for blood.

Behind Baleirithys stood Yrich, head archivist and scribe, exceptionally competent in his own work but poor substitute for chancellor. No one commented on Tharaiyelagh’s absence, though the weight of it hung heavy over the table. Kiile-Kili thumbed the edge of the papers before him.

“The agreement looks mutually beneficial,” MiiSehlenn said, picking her way through the sentence with deliberation. “But increased territory is worthless to us without livestock.” She looked at Baleirithys, one brow lifted in mild challenge.

He had known of this problem, of course. The short-legged browsing beasts that the Ravens called ytchattka once provided much of their livelihood.  The Hawks called the creatures kiiyal anli and regarded them as a nuisance on shared lands, but it was not the Hawk Clan that had caused their numbers to diminish. No, Baleirithys’ wretched father had seized a majority of the herds and then promptly sold them to the slavers.

Even after three centuries asleep, that man could still cause problems.

“I have resources,” Baleirithys said, taking care to keep his expression impassive. “It may take a little time, but I know some people who ought to be able to fetch you some good breeding stock.” If Silvermoon and Kleptomancer both refused the job, he supposed he could get Tempest to handle it. Messily.

First they all had to return from Interspace.

MiiSehlenn pursed her lips, but it was Kiile-Kili who spoke. “Until then, I am willing to yield exclusive use of the freshwater springs at Rustfields to your people.”

MiiSehlenn pretended to consider the offer while Baleirithys gulped back shock and pasted his usual icy demeanor in place. He arched an eyebrow in expectation.

“That’s the nearest water to your new lands. And the best for days in any direction.”

“It is.” Kiile-Kili held her gaze steadily. “I offer it to you as a sign of our commitment to this accord.”

MiiSehlenn watched him through narrowed eyes, but she saw no trace of trickery. “Agreed,” she decided at last. “When our livestock is returned to us, Rustwater will revert to communal territory.”

Behind Baleirithys, Yrich’s pen scratched softly, making notations, recording the exchange in painful detail. Perfect work for what he was. Tharaiyelagh would have silently expanded on the agreement, fleshing it out, making it ever more specific. He would have wielded his precise turn of phrase to keep Seyzharel safe, he would have made future transgressors regret crossing Baleirithys, he would have…

Squeezing his fists below the table until his claws dug into his own palms, Baleirithys forced himself to calm the sudden ache within him. How could he miss Tharaiyelagh so… so viscerally? How, in so short a time, had he come to rely on his chancellor to this extent? As the flash of pain and loneliness passed, a wave of regret followed. Regret mingled with fear. The feral beast within him stirred.

The carved mahogany door slammed open. Everyone turned. A soft gasp later, Yrich’s crystal inkwell shattered on the floor.

Iyahi-Ila sagged in the marble arch of the doorway, his fingertips clutching at the open door, failing to find support there. Sweat sheened his face, and his breaths came short and ragged. He forced his head upward. His shadowed eyes stared sightlessly into the chamber.

At Baleirithys.

“The Forgetting,” he gasped, his voice hollow, distant. “They won’t know themselves.”

“Iyahi!” Kiile-Kili vaulted the table and skidded to a stop at his brother’s side. His strength spent, Iyahi-Ila collapsed into the Hawk king’s arms.

MiiSehlenn rapped one finger on the tabletop. “No one mentioned that the Hawk Clan has a seer.” She spoke mildly enough, but a thin thread of threat ran beneath her words. If she perceived any advantage tipping the accord in the Hawks’ favor, she may not agree to it.

“Prince Iyahi-Ila may not survive long enough to learn the trade,” Baleirithys said, his words intentionally blunt, perhaps even cruel. “If my healer cannot manage to keep him abed.”

Kiile-Kili lifted his head, glaring darkly at Baleirithys. “I don’t care for that tonic that your healer gives him.”

Baleirithys suppressed a snort. “Nor do I.” Not if the result included the boy interrupting important meetings. He would have to ask Enci to adjust the ingredients.

MiiSehlenn looked to Baleirithys. “When the boy comes of age, we need to renegotiate.”

Baleirithys agreed. Kiile-Kili, who still knelt over his brother’s prone form, had nothing to say.

“I knew this was a bad idea!”

Atchi grinned a sharp grin that showed all of his teeth. “Too late to turn back now!” he shouted over the deafening roar of water. At this distance, the spray from the immense falls just barely dampened his hair, a million tiny diamonds on silver. His tail twitched with anticipation.

Luccan gripped the hilt of his sword as though he might fight the waterfall. His ears flattened against his head, and he bared his teeth.

“It’s just a little water!” Szearbhyn bellowed. He wore the malicious grin of a person who knew just how desperately someone else wanted to rip his tongue out and slap him with it.

Just a little water. Just enough water to drown the world, that was all. His eyes fixed on the wall of water ahead of them, Luccan took a step backward. Water slopped over the toe of his boot. A rising tide swallowed up the bridge behind them, and the only path left led directly through the waterfall. “Water this still shouldn’t have tides!” he yelped.

“I know!” Atchi crowed in delight. “This place is all wrong! Let’s go!” He bounded forward, toward the towering falls.

Luccan cast one last look at the rising waters, then scowled after Atchi. “You were never my friend at all!” he accused, and the fox just laughed and laughed.

Kiile-Kili sat at his brother’s bedside, his knees on his elbows, his clasped hands covering the lower part of his face. His brow furrowed in worry. Before him, Iyahi-Ila had twined himself in several bedsheets. The boy slept soundly, but he muttered incomprehensible phrases into his pillow. Baleirithys and Enci stood a short distance away, observing.

“I didn’t do this,” Enci said, his voice heavy with concern. “Yesterday we agreed together that he should stop taking the pain tonic.”

Baleirithys nodded. “And he was tolerating the pain?”

“Bravely.” Enci’s frown deepened. “Until—”

“No!” cried the Hawk prince. Kiile-Kili leapt to his feet, reached for his brother, then changed his mind. He clenched his fists and lowered his chin.

“Until what?” he demanded, his voice as tight as the skin over his knuckles.

Enci drew a deep breath. “Not two hours ago, he and I were sitting right here. He had a book open, and we were discussing it. Then a… a light came in the window. Prince Iyahi watched it drift around the infirmary and then, without pausing, go back the way it came. Immediately, he fell into some sort of trance, and…” Enci gestured helplessly at the boy who thrashed in the throes of some vision. “He babbled something about the space between light and shadow, called out some cherubic name, cried about being buried alive, and went to interrupt your summit.”

“Why did you not restrain him?” Kiile-Kili demanded, and Enci stepped forward, turning both forearms to show fresh scratches and red marks that would surely bruise. Baleirithys’ stomach turned at the sight.

“Do you think I did not try?”

For a moment, Kiile-Kili stood in uncertain silence. Then, with a bone-weary sigh, he sank back into his seat. Baleirithys certainly understood his urge to lash out, to find someone to blame for his brother’s new affliction. Perhaps if they could find the origin of the mysterious light—

A piercing shriek ripped from Iyahi-Ila, and he jolted upright. He sat, his back straight and his shoulders squared, amid a sprawling tangle of bedding. Heedless of his injuries, he wrung his hands together. “The nightmare wakes,” he gasped, his voice shaking with true fear. “My lord, my lord, you think to guard your treasures by sending them far away. What’s broken already is soon rent wide open. Let them… Let them…” Letting out a small gurgle of desperation, Iyahi-Ila sagged forward, folding himself nearly in half. “You have to bear it!” The words sounded like a plea. “Heroic hearts… Gold on the throne… A new era…” Sobbing now, the boy swayed side to side, somehow too strong for his brother’s attempts to still him.

Baleirithys looked to Enci, but Enci’s full attention remained on his frail little patient. Iyahi-Ila pressed a fist to his mouth and bit down on his knuckles. It took both Kiile-Kili and Enci to pry his hand free before he drew blood.

“Too many souls!” Iyahi-Ila wailed. “Too many! And the purest soul in Hell grips his chains and waits, waits for judgment! And YOU!” He stared, unseeing eyes wide in horror, fixed on vague middle distance. “HOW DARE YOU! I WILL TEAR YOUR WORLD ASUNDER FOR THE BLASPHEMY DONE THIS HALLOWED PLACE! YOU WILL PERISH IN THE KNOWLEDGE THAT YOUR NAME IS CURSED FOR ALL ETERNITY!” A violent shudder wracked his small frame, and then his face relaxed into a beatific smile. “Ah. It seems marriage agrees with you.” That said, he slumped like a discarded doll, and in a moment he snored into his brother’s shoulder.

Kiile-Kili eased Iyahi-Ila back into the bed. “Explain,” he growled as he tucked the blankets around his sleeping brother.

When Enci hesitated, Baleirithys stepped forward. “Some kind of a spell triggered a powerful trance.” A powerful spell, to have slipped the castle defenses. “And your brother seems to have responded by acting as an oracle.”

“Will it come back?”

“Only if the spell does,” Baleirithys said through his teeth. Unknown magics were not welcome in his territory. What was its purpose? Would it harm any of his people?

Perhaps he could track it.

Kiile-Kili would watch over Iyahi-Ila for some time yet. Baleirithys would withdraw to the archive soon, and in the tomes of magic he would find a suitable spell.

He would protect his home and his people.

And yet…

Iyahi-Ila’s words left him cold with doubt.

Chapter Text

Tharaiyelagh shifted his shoulders, but the sliding of the linen against his skin gave him no relief from the itching. If he turned away from the tree, or looked directly at it, the itch grew unbearable. He eyed the carpet of green stalks underfoot, and he wondered if rolling on it would offer any relief. Probably not. He shifted again, and he tried to ignore the looming presence of the tree.

“Here.” A small tin in his hand, Van-Dal knelt beside Tharaiyelagh. “Let me see your back.” He set the tin aside and helped Tharaiyelagh out of his jacket. Tharaiyelagh hiked his shirt up to his armpits, but Van-Dal pushed it all the way up over his shoulders. The fabric hung from the back of his neck and ensnared his arms. With a soft chuckle, Van-Dal touched the skin beside the bite mark. “I see,” he said. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Tharaiyelagh blushed to the tips of his ears, but he made no move to cover the bite. The cool air and the warm light of the ever-circling sun soothed his itching back. “It’s no intrusion,” he forced himself to say with an artificial steadiness to his voice. His breath wanted to catch, and a fluttering had taken hold in his chest. He felt… excited? Thrilled? He wanted Van-Dal to interact with the bite mark?

“Hm,” remarked Van-Dal. He opened the tin, which contained some sort of salve. He dipped two fingers in it, then, catching Tharaiyelagh watching, gently nudged the back of his head with his own brow. He just missed getting jabbed with the tips of Tharaiyelagh’s horns. “You don’t need to watch.” He touched the salve to Tharaiyelagh’s back and began to spread it over the itching skin with small, circular strokes. The salve itself tingled, but it was the warmth of Van-Dal’s caresses that soothed his tense muscles until Tharaiyelagh felt like he might turn to liquid and melt away into the ground.

“Why are you so kind to me?” The words tumbled out rather without permission, and Tharaiyelagh frowned after them. Van-Dal scoffed.

“Kind?” he said. “I haven’t been kind. I’ve stalked you, cut your back open, and forced your blood to mingle with my own. The shock of it could have killed you.”

Tharaiyelagh considered the terrible pain of the breaking of the seal, and its aftermath. His frown deepening, he shook his head. “No.” When had he become so bold? “No, you would not risk my life so lightly.”

Van-Dal’s hands stilled on his back. “Am I so transparent, little one?” he murmured.

Tharaiyelagh shrugged. “Maybe?” He could point out that harming the chancellor of Seyzharel would make for poor politics. He could remind Van-Dal of his lifelong friendship with Baleirithys. He could even appeal to a male dragon’s inclination to protect and nurture. Instead, he shifted around until he could meet Van-Dal’s gaze. “You weren’t trying to hide the fact that you care about me… were you?”

Van-Dal’s tail lashed in the carpet of green beneath them. “Perhaps not,” he conceded. His fingers wandered from shoulders to nape, where he toyed with the silk cord he had given Tharaiyelagh. “Will you tell me what this is?”

North’s opal.

Tharaiyelagh’s hand closed over the stone where it rested against his chest. It felt warm, almost alive. He trusted Van-Dal, of course he did, but somehow he hesitated. “Ah… I’d rather talk about it later.” He glanced toward Seikhiel and Ragheiyont, who sat a little distance away, talking in low tones. Did he distrust his own brother? Probably. Possibly for the best.

“Hmm.” Van-Dal’s fingers stilled. He pressed his chin against Tharaiyelagh’s shoulder, quite near the bite mark. “That’s probably wise.” The scent of the salve wafted upward, menthol and sweet spice in the perpetual afternoon. Tharaiyelagh closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

“Oya! Get away from there!”

The alarm in Ragheiyont’s voice snapped Tharaiyelagh out of his momentary respite. He squinted up the hill. There, Tempest paced in broad circles around the tree. His wings shifted loosely behind him, almost an afterthought. If he had not hidden them yet, did that mean that he was still weak from exerting so much magic?

With exaggerated deliberation, Tempest stopped pacing. “Isn’t this tree the entire purpose for this errand of ours?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Good. Let’s examine it.” Tempest took a step closer, then hesitated, as though faced with in invisible barricade. “Strange,” he said softly, “how it entices and repulses me in equal measure.” He lifted his hand.

“I wouldn’t—”

The moment his fingertips brushed against the soft bark, Tempest snatched his hand away. Frowning, he examined his fingers, dragging his thumb across them. “I’m… not certain how to open it.”

“I’m surprised you still have a hand,” Ragheiyont said. “I can feel that thing from here. What were ya thinkin’?”

“Actually,” Tharaiyelagh ventured, struggling past a wave of uncertainty, “I can feel it too.” Like a bad sunburn, creeping up his back.

Seikhiel climbed to his feet and dusted his hands off. “If we’re all repulsed by the tree, then how do we open it?”

Van-Dal shifted his wings in a gesture that looked almost self-protecting. “I can probably—”

“Repulsed?” Akieryon plucked at the feathery green needles of a low branch. “You’re all repulsed?”

Tharaiyelagh shuddered at the thought of touching the dread tree. Seeing everyone staring at him in varying degrees of astonishment, Akieryon blushed and lowered his hand. Tharaiyelagh righted his shirt and stood, wincing as his leg gave a twinge of protest. Van-Dal didn’t know about that yet, but he would notice it soon enough. “It’s…” Frowning, Tharaiyelagh squinted at the tree. “It’s like an annoying noise, but one that you don’t really register at first. The noise doesn’t actually get any louder, but the longer it goes on, the more it bothers you. Until you want to claw your eardrums out.” Not a perfect analogy—he sensed the tree with his entire body—but it made enough sense that most everyone else nodded along. Even terrifying, golden Seikhiel.

Doing a poor job of concealing his confusion, Akieryon shuffled over to Tempest’s side. The moment their hands touched, a visible tension melted from Akieryon, leaving him alert and determined.

“I don’t know how it opens,” he said, “but I will help.”

“An’ we’re what, backup?” Bitterness sharpened Ragheiyont’s voice. “An audience?” He swayed, unsteady on his feet.

“Rahi…”

“If I can’t help, then what am I even here for?” He glared at the shards of his dagger, still in precise arrangement where Tharaiyelagh had aligned them.

Lightly, his footsteps making no sound on the hillside, Van-Dal moved to Ragheiyont’s side and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Raya,” he said, his voice low and his stare unyielding, “you brought me here. Seikhiel and I never would have come so far without you. Let me do this part.”

Ragheiyont gave a reluctant nod, and when he looked away, he looked to his brother. A flicker of understanding passed between them. Ragheiyont now realized what Tharaiyelagh had learned months ago: Van-Dal would burn down the world to protect them.

All of them.

A burst of noise, a sudden roaring sound broke upon the hillside. At the foot of the hill, a spray of mist shrouded a newly formed gate. Drenched but smiling, Atchi stepped forward into the sunlight. He tucked some sort of tool away in his sleeve, and he turned around, his arms open wide.

“Come, my friends! Behold! It’s—”

“Dry!” Luccan surged past him, nearly bowling him over. Szearbhyn sauntered through last, amusement plain in every line of his posture. Like the others before, the gate vanished, taking the roar of water with it. Luccan shook himself vigorously, then tore off layers of sodden clothing and cast them down on the hillside. Szearbhyn’s gaze searched for his brother. Atchi stared at the tree.

“That’s it.” He nudged Luccan, who had managed to strip down to trousers and undershirt. Luccan’s head snapped up, and he stilled.

“Bel,” he whispered.

Familiar stone stairs led the way up to the archive. Here he had broken a tooth as a child. There one step stood a little thinner than its neighbors, for someone having sanded the bloodstain away and buffed it back to a fine gloss. He looked away, turned away from the memories. He kept walking. In moments, he stood before the archive door, forcing his usual mask of calm into place before he reached for the handle.

A hiss and a flash of claws greeted him. His heart jumping in his chest, Baleirithys slammed the door shut again. He should have expected that, he chided himself. Of course the appearance of the Hawk prince would have unsettled Yrich, even enough to draw out his feral self. He should have realized sooner.

Baleirithys pressed his palm flat against the gleaming wood of the door. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He knew the situation had been beyond his control, but still the guilt tightened his throat and squeezed his chest. Pulling his shoulders back and settling his wings in a position of false confidence, he turned away.

Halfway down the stairs—on the step that had once broken Baleirithys’ jaw—Gavi stood, her head tilted a little to the side, watching him. Hot shame turned quickly to rage, and Baleirithys squashed both with the grace of long practice. He descended to meet her.

“Neither Laraghn nor Yrich is currently available.”

Gavi gave him a hard, calculating look which she swiftly covered with a wave of compassion. “Is he well?”

“Mostly.” Baleirithys wondered how much Gavi knew already, how much Laraghn had told her. Did it matter?

Of course it mattered. This was Gavi’s home now. Baleirithys took the final step down, putting himself on the same level as this newcomer. He forced his expression to soften. “How are you and Baaz settling in?”

“Oh!” Gavi blinked at him, startled by the casual conversation. Yes, Chaighan had reacted the same way at first. “I, um…” She gathered her wits. “Rather well. Your Highness is kind to ask.”

Baleirithys waved the compliment away. “Please, Gavi, you must use my name.” He turned away, took two steps downward.

“Why?”

The bluntness, the very brazenness of the question brought a genuine smile to Baleirithys’ lips. He turned, he stepped up one step, and he stared directly into Gavi’s eyes as he met bluntness with bluntness.

“Because too many people have claimed power over you by denying you the use of names. Theirs and yours.” When Gavi did not flinch, something savage stirred in him, and he yielded to it. “How many called you ‘girl’ or ‘child’ or ‘half-dragon’ or worse?” Oh, he had endured worse. Curled bleeding on the floor, shivering as his father spat curses at him simply for daring to exist, weak and hungry and so, so tired…

Gavi did not shy from him. She held her head high, like a dragon, like a warrior of the Hawk Clan. Her eyes narrowed a little in thought, and she almost nodded. “You’re not at all what they say you are,” she decided. “In the wildlands.”

An invisible tension eased between them. Half-turning, Baleirithys tilted his head in invitation. “Walk with me,” he said. “Tell me more. What do they say about me?”

Nine men sat in a circle around Ragheiyont’s ruined dagger. Washed and dressed and fed, they briefly recounted their journeys to one another. Tharaiyelagh rolled up his trouser leg to show the purpling on his shin. Ragheiyont bared his wounded arm. The sun circled above them, endlessly warm. When the conversation quieted, Atchi spoke.

“The seal on that tree is designed to hold the child of a Fallen. I think…” A flicker of a shadow crossed his fine features. “I cannot open it. Not without giving it something in return.” His gaze flicked to Luccan, then quickly away again.

“All holy seals demand something in return,” Van-Dal said.

“Warbringer could split it open.”

Atchi shook his head at his friend. “I would advise you not to stand too close to that thing. It could take you as well. And,” he added, shooting a pointed look at Seikhiel, “in anyone else’s hand, your beast of a sword is as likely to harm Bel as not.”

Luccan made a small exhale of dissatisfaction. Ragheiyont lifted one wing to shelter him, and Luccan pretended not to notice the gesture of dragonish comfort. Tharaiyelagh watched them, feeling oddly awkward. His brother had found himself a family. He had Luccan, sulking beneath the shade of his wing, and to his other side sat Seikhiel, stoic and golden, yet attentive to the thief at his side. How Ragheiyont had captured the affection of the most feared of Demonslayers remained a mystery to Tharaiyelagh, and his chest tightened at the thought. Ragheiyont would make room in his life for these two, but not for his own brother?

No, that wasn’t fair. Ragheiyont had changed in the decades they had spent apart. Where he had always looked raw boned and lean, now he seemed gaunt. Even the eternal sunlight could do little to bring color to his cheeks, and his eyes held deep shadows behind their merry blue. Ragheiyont had clearly suffered, and bitterness benefited no one.

Ragheiyont caught Tharaiyelagh watching him, and when his brother’s gaze wavered, Ragheiyont grinned at him. He tossed a small parcel across the circle of their companions, and in his surprise, Tharaiyelagh caught it. He unwrapped the careful folds of cloth, and there within lay a little almond cake. His throat constricting, Tharaiyelagh stared down at it. When they had begun this journey, Thrin had packed them three dozen of the delicious little cakes. Surely this one was the last. Ragheiyont had saved it for him. Or pilfered it from someone who had been keeping it for later. Numbly, Tharaiyelagh broke off a piece and passed it to Van-Dal.

“It’s decided, then,” Van-Dal declared when nothing of the sort had happened at all. “I shall break the seal, with the twins’ assistance.”

“I didn’t agree to that,” Szearbhyn said.

“We don’t know what to do,” said Akieryon.

Van-Dal gave them both a reassuring smile. “Just follow my lead,” he said. “Easy as falling down.”

“I wish you had chosen different words,” Akieryon muttered, and his brother glared.

“I must prepare.” Without waiting for further commentary, Van-Dal stood. “Chancellor Tharaiyelagh, if you would accompany me?”

Tharaiyelagh stumbled to his feet and followed Van-Dal down the sunlit slope. What help could he possibly offer? Of course he would render any and all—

“Tharaiyelagh.” Van-Dal stopped almost too abruptly for Tharaiyelagh’s halting steps. He turned, and the expression on his face stole away any reply Tharaiyelagh might have made. “My people make every effort to live life without regrets,” he said, his voice low and serious.  “It is our way, one of the cornerstones of our culture, and yet I myself have been remiss. I…” He drew a deep breath. “I should have said something before we left Seyzharel.”

Tharaiyelagh watched him with a growing horror, a crushing feeling that whatever Van-Dal would say, it would forever change them. He would miss their easy conversations, their casual flirtations, far more than he had ever realized. Tears stung the corners of his eyes, and his throat tightened, but he kept his expression neutral. He clenched his fists and squared his shoulders.

Let change come.

“You were quite correct earlier. It should not be a secret.” Van-Dal lifted his wings to shield them from view, and he stepped nearer, so near, so very near. “You are not mine,” he said softly, his gaze never breaking from Tharaiyelagh’s face. “You never will be.” He tipped his head forward, letting their foreheads touch, and Tharaiyelagh almost choked on the weight of the moment. Or perhaps that was simply his tears. “But in the brief time we’ve known each other, you have become precious to me.”

Tharaiyelagh’s traitorous heart slammed against his ribs as the bottom dropped out of his world. How could this have happened? This was a political disaster, and yet he longed to throw his arms around Van-Dal’s neck, to feel the warmth of him, to allow a scent mark—

“Relax, little one.” Van-Dal tilted his head, drifting the softest of kisses against Tharaiyelagh’s cheek as he moved away. “I’m going to show this lot what a prince of the Second Sphere can do.” His tail snaked around Tharaiyelagh’s ankle for a moment as he walked away. Tharaiyelagh stood frozen on the sunlit hillside, stunned, feeling as alone as he had ever been.

Moonlight drenched the plains in soft tones of silver and lilac. Baleirithys stood alone at a marble parapet, gazing out into the night. At sundown Gavi had hurried off about her chores, but their conversation had left Baleirithys with much on his mind. Too much. Hours later he still stood atop the south tower, foundering in the maelstrom of his thoughts.

The people of the wildlands called him monster. They blamed him for the constant shifting of the borders while they manipulated his laws into a mockery of justice. The slavers clamored for his blood, but that was no surprise. In truth, little of what Gavi had told him had genuinely surprised him.

Except for the bit about him not being monster enough.

Some people, those who opposed the slavers, apparently wished that Baleirithys would commit treason. They wanted him to slay his vile father and assume the throne. They wanted a king who ruled Seyzharel without the mandate of law.

For three hundred years Baleirithys had maintained his father’s unnatural slumber, keeping him harmless, keeping him tucked away while the prince toiled to rebuild all that the king had destroyed. But claiming the throne? Impossible. Seyzharel law explicitly forbade it. To silence Thaghecii forever, Baleirithys would have to give up his right to rule. For three hundred years, he could not bring himself to make such a sacrifice.

Now he had a son. Now he could safely forfeit his birthright, and still he hesitated. He waited. His desire to rule his people stayed his hand where swift action would perhaps benefit them better. The throne, his throne, would pass to Tempest, who would surely not thank him for it. A cold mountain breeze tugged at his wings, and he shivered. How could he stomach his own cowardice?

“Don’t go feral on us now.”

Baleirithys closed his eyes against the crisp, clear night. Enci. Of course Enci would find him up here. He drew a deep breath, held it a beat, and let it out slowly. “Is that what kind of monster I am?”

Such a question.

“Is that what you think?” Enci said carefully, stepping closer. “That you’re a monster? You, our beloved prince?”

Beloved. Baleirithys took another slow breath. In a different life, perhaps. “When I’m at my most feral, perhaps.” When he bared his fangs and pushed venom into flesh. When a human convulsed and screamed and frothed and bled at his feet.

“You’re no monster,” Enci said, his voice softening, deepening. Something had happened to his voice in recent years, some subtle change. Now, in quiet moments like this one, his words reverberated within him, like velvet and wildfire, and the sound had a strange effect on Baleirithys. It reminded him of being young, so terribly young, and hopelessly lovestruck. “You’re hurting,” Enci was saying. “I want to help you heal, but I can’t do that if you won’t let me see where it hurts.”

It hurts everywhere. Baleirithys turned, and he watched the moonlight catch the contours of Enci’s face. How could he explain…? “I should kill him,” he blurted, his words too reckless, too thick with treason.

A flicker of worry creased Enci’s brow, then faded away into the night. “My prince,” he said, leaning a little on the possessive, “please do not act rashly. We need you.”

“But you’d be safe,” Baleirithys blurted. Words that should have caught in his throat came tumbling out. “Everyone would be safe. Tempest and Tharaiyelagh can govern and—”

“And Lord Tempest would begrudge you forcing the throne on him,” Enci interrupted. “You know he would.”

Any wisp of determination drained out of Baleirithys. He allowed his wings to droop a little, when in reality he wanted to lean against Enci and beg for reassurance. He had long since stopped making such childish requests.

“My prince,” Enci continued, the new purr in his voice vibrating over Baleirithys’ skin. “Stay with us.”

Baleirithys swallowed a sudden urge to flee. He gave Enci a sidelong look. “How fares your patient?”

“Much improved. When I left him, he was sitting up and playing crosscoins with his brother. But…”

“But his condition would worsen if the unknown spell returned.” When Enci nodded, Baleirithys heaved a great sigh. “Yrich is not himself right now. I won’t even begin to research the matter until tomorrow at the earliest.” Tharaiyelagh would have been allowed into the archive. Enci must have read the thought on his face, for he stepped nearer still. His wings blocked the breeze, and the heat from his body warmed Baleirithys on one side.

“He’ll return soon,” he said softly, almost inaudibly. Baleirithys should have flinched from the words.

Instead, he leaned a little to the side. He planted his shoulder against Enci’s chest, and his wings settled low. Closing his eyes, Baleirithys breathed deeply of the night air.

Yes. Tharaiyelagh would return. Or else Baleirithys would tear the worlds apart in search of him.

Enci’s wing draped over him, and Baleirithys pressed closer, accepting the gesture of comfort. They could stand like this all night, and neither of them would much mind.

For a moment, Baleirithys felt something akin to peace.

Chapter Text

Van-Dal reached into an inner pocket in the deepest part of his pack, and he produced a neatly tied bundle of the softest linen. With great reverence he unfastened each knot, then unfolded the fabric. Within lay a simple band set with tumbled rubies, each identical to the next, each perfectly rounded. He lifted it between his hands, and he gazed for a while into the stones. Then he lifted the circlet and placed it on his head.

Next he made careful inspection of his weapons, one at a time, more blades than a person could reasonably have expected him to have brought. Some he set aside and some he returned to their hidden places about his person, until a pair of matched short swords remained. Each was just the right length to lay the blade along his forearm, fully concealing it. Holding both in one hand, he looked to Seikhiel.

“If I am unable, you must return the jewels to my father.”

Seikhiel gave a brief nod, an understanding from one soldier to another. Then Van-Dal pulled his mask up and secured it into place over the lower half of his face.

Let the work commence.

He stood straight and tall, his wings opened almost halfway, and he faced his opponent. The tree’s branches swayed benignly against the boundless blue of the sky. To his right, a small movement caught his eye. Luccan. The cat stepped forward, his massive sword resting across both hands. Their gazes locked, and Van-Dal nodded. By any means necessary. Luccan placed the fabled blade at his feet and stepped back again.

Akieryon and Szearbhyn flanked the tree, one looking bored and the other uncertain. Well. They would not remain idle for long. Van-Dal shifted one sword to each hand. These blades had come with him out of childhood. They felt natural in his relaxed hands. They were faithful companions, comfortable extensions of his arms. He closed his eyes for a moment, and he allowed a deep gratitude to well up within him. Thank you for coming along on every journey. If our travels should end here, it was worth every step.

Van-Dal reversed the blades and struck them against his own chest. Someone cried out in alarm. Tharaiyelagh. Behind his mask, Van-Dal allowed himself a small smile. He took his surge of warm feeling and he pushed it into the energies gathering on the freshly blooded swords. He extended one in a low guard, raised the other to the level of his eyes, and he sprang forward.

The tree swung a massive branch at him. He ducked, his wings grazing the tops of the quillworts, and the great tree’s feathery needles caught at his plumage as it passed him by.

“Hold the tree!”

Akieryon responded first, reaching out with magic that tingled at the edges of Van-Dal’s senses. He remained focused on his target: the immense bulk of the trunk of the tree. Another branch swept over his head, but this one was caught and held by one of the twins. Van-Dal gained a striking position, and he slashed. Soft bark burst outward in a spray of powder and splinters. The trunk buckled, as though trying to force the debris into his mouth, his nose, his eyes. Van-Dal squinted, and he made a second cut. A third, arcing slash formed a rudimentary sigil. The tree twisted, straining away from him, fighting with all its considerable mass. Threads of magic twined above him, keeping the lashing branches away from him, light and dark, the essence of life itself fused into a protective shield. The ground shook beneath his feet, and Van-Dal leapt back just as a root burst forth, bent on his destruction. He skidded a short distance down the slope, and he studied his foe.

The twins had the thrashing branches held fast in a net of magic that stretched taut between them. They bent all of their strength to the task, their wings battering the air to steady them. The trunk of the tree bucked and strained. It could not free itself, not yet, but it had the luxury of time. Creatures of flesh would tire long before an immense cedar ever did.

One more component. One strike. One burst of energy. The trick, though, would lie in getting past the roots.

The answer lay at his feet.

Van-Dal reached down with his tail, hooked it beneath Warbringer, and flung it into the air. Catching the fabled sword between both hands, he whirled, and he threw it. The blade flew true. It tore through two lashing roots before plunging into the base of the tree’s trunk.

The great cedar shuddered. Van-Dal charged through the pause, through the shockwave that followed. He gained the trunk once more. With all his strength, with a mighty cry, he slashed both short swords into the bark, completing the sigil.

With a groan, with such a rending that it felt like his own flesh shook apart with it, the ancient cedar’s trunk split open like a yew tree. A single stroke of Van-Dal’s wings carried him backward as a mess of unkempt red hair and pale limbs tumbled out of the breach.

The heap Bel had landed in somehow resolved itself into a crouch. He looked up through his tangled mop of hair, his eyes flashing through every shade of fire. He bared his teeth, and he lunged.

Oh, no.

There is something profoundly unsettling, Van-Dal reflected, about an unarmed and unclad person attacking with nothing but claws and a fearsome scream. Van-Dal’s wings carried him safely out of range of Bel’s wild swipes, but the sword master only turned in search of his next… Opponent? Victim? Van-Dal looked around, looked to the elders of their group, looked for answers.

Bel made an unsteady charge at Akieryon, who dodged, but lost his hold on the tree. It snapped back, lashing branches at Bel and Akieryon while flinging Szearbhyn high into the cloudless sky. Oh, well. He’d come back down eventually.

Failing to get his claws into Akieryon, Bel whirled. He clenched his fists, arched his spine, and snarled a snarl that seemed to come from deep beneath his feet. He opened his hands with a sudden rush of heat. Flames danced between his spread fingers, ready to be given a direction. Van-Dal stepped in front of Tharaiyelagh, wings and swords held defensively.

“Bel!” Luccan started forward. “We’re here to help—” His words ended in a squeak of feline alarm as his old friend charged at him, throwing tendrils of fire as he went.

“Don’t hurt him!” Akieryon launched himself into Seikhiel’s path just as Seikhiel took a step toward the growing chaos. “He can’t—”

“TRY TO ATTACK MY BROTHER, WILL YOU!” Szearbhyn plunged out of the sky in a steep dive. He may have actually tackled Bel, if the tree hadn’t swung one great branch and lashed him to the earth first. Szearbhyn’s crash landing carved a deep furrow down the side of the hill and kicked a hailstorm of dirt and clods into the air. Those dragons who left their faces uncovered choked and tried not to breathe.

“Bel, listen to us!” barked Atchi, his hands raised in supplication. “We don’t want to hurt you!”

In his frenzy, Bel turned on Atchi. Flames swirled around his arms as he raised his claws to strike. They’re holding back, Van-Dal considered with some regret. They don’t want to harm Bel, and so Bel may destroy them.

Just then, a black-clad figure darted forward, nimbly evading claws and flames—or did he just pass cleanly through the fire? Without breaking stride, without hesitation, without any pretense of not wanting to harm the swordmaster, Tempest punched Bel in the jaw.

Bel reeled and tumbled back, bare limbs and crimson hair flying wildly as he lost his footing and fell, somersaulting backward down the hill.

Directly through the carefully arranged shards of Ragheiyont’s Wardbreaker.

“No!” Tharaiyelagh started forward, but Van-Dal restrained him with an arm across the chest. He felt so frail there, struggling to free himself, fighting in vain to help his brother. Ragheiyont simply collapsed in place, which was no help at all. With a cry of pure anguish, Tharaiyelagh dug his perfectly manicured claws into Van-Dal’s arm. “We have to help—!”

Wearing an expression of wounded patience, Tempest lifted one hand. All the scattered shards of Wardbreaker flew to his open palm. Every single one. Van-Dal’s eyes narrowed. After his… volcanic entrance earlier, even a dragon ten times Tempest’s age should find his magic spent for a while longer, and yet here the new prince of Seyzharel stood, expending more magic just as casually as breathing. Fascinating.

Bel tumbled to a stop and sat blinking behind the ragged curtain of his hair. His breathing slowed, and he used one fingertip to push just a little of his hair aside. He winced at the sunlight.

He can’t see, Van-Dal realized. That’s what Akieryon had tried to tell them. Well, now Bel shaded his long-disused eyes and tried to study his rescuers. Such as they were. Szearbhyn had bounced to his feet and, denied opportunity to rush to his twin’s side, glared at the tree. Akieryon yanked Warbringer free from the roots of the great cedar, whereupon its branches stilled.

Akieryon brought the sword to Luccan, who edged nearer to Bel. He had turned almost fully sideways, his ears lay flat against his head, and his spine had taken on a distinct outward arch. If he’d had a tail, Van-Dal imagined it would stand out in a full bottlebrush fluff. “Your sword,” Akieryon ventured.

“My sword,” Bel rasped, his voice like rust and gravel. “So here you are, you old tom.”

Luccan slid Warbringer back into its scabbard, but his posture did not relax. “I ought to punch you,” he hissed through his teeth. Bel rubbed at his bruised jaw.

“It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?” His eyes focused, with some effort, on Ragheiyont. “Why is that one on the ground?”

“The dagger,” said Seikhiel from where he knelt at Ragheiyont’s side. “Give him the dagger.”

Shrugging, Tempest brought the shards of Wardbreaker to Bel, who recoiled from it with a guttural hiss. “Foul and hungry thing,” he growled. “You are better rid of it.”

Seikhiel stood up. “Repair it,” he demanded, his voice as dark as his expression.

Bel regraded him across the shards of the cursed dagger. His eyes narrowed, flicked to Ragheiyont, then settled on Seikhiel again, much more focused now. Slowly, raspingly, Bel began to laugh.

The archangel Michael lay on the hardwood floor, his face turned to the darkest corner of the room, the scent of dust and wax filling his nostrils. He had failed. He had utterly failed his entire army, and he deserved to wither to dust and drift away to clump along the baseboards.

“You make a very poor dust bunny.”

Michael kicked his feet, which availed him nothing. He still wanted to crumble away. He still had to deal with the consequences of his negligence.

“Lord Michael,” said Sidriel, in that weary, exasperated tone of his. “Please get up. Raaqiel has complaints.” When Michael merely grunted, Sidriel added, “Of course, that’s nothing new.”

“He’ll deal with it.” Michael pushed himself up onto his knees. “I don’t want the workload of the Third Sword doubled, but…”

“But we cant allow the Fifth Sword to proceed as they have been,” Sidriel agreed. “If Keilel’s allegations prove true—”

“They’re true,” Michael growled. Certainty twisted and sank like lead in his gut, poisoning every thought. He had to fight it. “But a proper investigation must be conducted. These poor soldiers… My poor soldiers…” Tortured right under his own miserable, myopic nose.

Sidriel heaved yet another weary sigh. “Lord Michael,” he said, and for the first time it struck Michael how exhausted he sounded. “There is yet that other matter.”

This time, Michael himself sighed. “How,” he said, drawing the word out into three syllables, “has Niseriel managed to misplace his best Demonslayer?”

Sidriel simply shook his head.

This was all too much. With the weight of centuries of past abuses and the burden of work yet to come all crushing him, Michael collapsed back onto the floor.

Becoming a dust bunny seemed like the thing to do.

Bel held the shards of Wardbreaker gently, as though they might startle and attack him. He prodded them around with one fingertip, careful not to cut himself on any of the edges. He scowled for a minute, and then sparks and flames leapt from his fingertips. He hissed a curse, then redoubled his effort. Light flared between his hands, hot and white. Ragheiyont screamed. Seikhiel caught him and held him upright.

When the flames died away, Wardbreaker lay across Bel’s palm, shot through with cracks but undeniably whole. He held it up toward Ragheiyont, who still leaned against Seikhiel, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. “Good enough to travel on,” declared Bel, “but fragile. And foul. At a proper forge, I might improve both.”

Ragheiyont made no move toward the dagger. He looked limp, drained, and utterly unfit to make the journey back. Akieryon eyed the way his wings sagged low, dragging on the ground, and he fretted. He had never left a soldier behind, not yet. He looked at Seikhiel, who stood with his arm around Ragheiyont, and he worried that this time he might have to leave two.

Still holding the dagger, Bel climbed to his feet. “A bit rude,” he remarked, “asking me to work before I’ve even dressed.” He gave Seikhiel an arch look. “Not that you appear to have any clothing to spare.” He turned to Luccan, who unfastened his weathered old cloak and wordlessly handed it over. “When did he stop wearing a shirt? Is this new?”

Akieryon knew the answer. Less clothing meant fewer places to leave marks, to track the evidence of abuses across the skin of a stubborn victim. Swallowing his bitter truth, Akieryon turned away, turned his gaze upon his other companions. They must not know. They must never know.

Atchi rummaged in his pack and produced—of all things—a kilt. Tempest split the air with one fingertip, reached through into one of his private pocket dimensions, and pulled out a vest. Bel took both without comment. He dressed himself, which seemed a tremendous relief to some of their company.

“Well.” Bel tucked the fragile Wardbreaker away into some hidden pocket in Atchi’s kilt. “Who has something to eat?”

Luccan flung a waterstained pack at him and stomped down to the foot of the hill, where he stood, his back to them, apparently fuming. Unruffled, Bel rummaged in the pack for food. Grinning, Atchi leaned close to him. “Be nice to his kit,” he advised. Bel shot a narrow-eyed glance at Ragheiyont. Then he gave a hearty laugh.

“Oho, this is a tangled mess! How did this happen, eh?” He nudged Seikhiel with his elbow. “Brought low by one of Luccan’s? I never thought I’d see the day!”

Ragheiyont pushed free of Seikhiel’s arm, swayed, then planted his feet and raised his wings in defiance. “Whaddya mean by that, jo?”

Chuckling still, Bel shook his head. “One more thing for the two of them to fight about, I’m sure.”

Seikhiel looked away, looked at the quillworts beneath his feet. “It’s irrelevant,” he muttered.

“Irrelevant!” Bel barked a fresh laugh. “Oh, no, old friend, I mean to rib you about this for a good long while!”

Panic flashed across Seikhiel’s face. “You mustn’t.” He caught at the edge of the borrowed cloak and pulled Bel nearer. “Please,” he said, his voice almost too low to hear. “For Ragheiyont’s safety.”

Akieryon knew too well that cold knife of fear, that certainty that any small affection could become a weapon in the hands of…

“Bah.” Bel gestured, and Atchi handed him a canteen. “Since when do you keep company with people who cannot take care of themselves?” He drank deeply, washing the rusty tones from his voice. “You, hero of the Great Heavens’ War. Even that human girl you and Niseriel both—”

“Leave Damar out of this.”

“—were married to was feisty enough.” Bel watched Ragheiyont for a reaction, knowing his words could cut as deeply as any blade. He was not disappointed.

Ragheiyont jabbed a claw at Seikhiel. “You said you weren’t attracted to anyone!” he accused. His wings hunched high over his shoulders, he stormed unsteadily away down the hill, toward Luccan.

Bel grinned broadly. “What does attraction have to do with marriage?”

“Rahi!” Seikhiel followed Ragheiyont down the hill, and the rest of the assembled company drifted after him, keeping only the barest pretense of a respectful distance.

“You are a very bad man,” Atchi said to Bel in a bland tone, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“If man I may be.”

“Right.”

Akieryon glared at the both of them. He struggled to reconcile the idea of Bel with the reality before him. History painted the great swordmaker as a somber craftsman, a person wholly devoted to his art. The Bel they had freed seemed to enjoy needling his friends simply for the pleasure of watching them react.

“I’m being stupid,” Ragheiyont mumbled, the words meant for Seikhiel’s ears. Everyone else strained to listen. “I know it’s not my business. Y’ve lived so long, of course I barely know—”

“Ragheiyont,” Seikhiel interrupted, his voice gentle, soothing. “I told you the truth. I will always tell you the truth.”

Their gazes met and held, azure to amber, and Akieryon abruptly felt that he intruded on a profoundly intimate moment. He turned away, searching for his brother. He found Tempest.

“Spectacle,” Tempest muttered. He inclined his head toward the crest of the hill, toward Bel who had backtracked and now rummaged about near the foot of the tree that had so lately been his prison.

“He’s going to get caught again—” Akieryon started up the hill, but Tempest’s hand on his arm stilled him, calmed him. If Tempest thought Bel would be fine, he had no reason to doubt. He never had reason to doubt Tempest.

Bel tucked something into his pocket and straightened. He turned to head back down the hill, but his steps faltered when he saw Tempest and Akieryon watching him. “Gentlemen,” he said, his expression growing wary.

“Quite a performance,” Tempest said benignly, but Bel bristled all the same.

“It’s Seikhiel’s own fault. He ought to know better than to court a dragon scarcely out of the nest.”

“They’ve only known each other a few days.” Why did Akieryon feel the need to defend the man who had imprisoned him?

“Even worse,” Bel scoffed. He made to brush past them, but Tempest lifted one hand, and Bel froze. In Tempest’s open palm lay a single black feather. Frantic, Bel checked his pockets. Then he glared, baring double fangs as he snarled, “Give it back.”

Tempest glanced over at the rest of their ragtag company, still gathered around Seikhiel and Ragheiyont. Then, with a small shake of his head, he handed the feather to Bel. Gingerly, as though the feather might attack him, Bel took it between two fingers and held it up to the light. Oil-slick rainbows played across the upper surface. Satisfied, Bel tucked it away again, but he regarded Tempest with deep suspicion.

“What are you?” the swordsmith demanded.

“Tempest.”

It was no answer. It was the only possible answer. Hiding his smile, Akieryon slipped his hand into the crook of Tempest’s elbow and tugged him back down the sunny slope, back to their companions.

For this one last gift, my young friend, I am in your debt.

Chapter Text

“Interspace.” Raaqiel paced the front of the classroom, his hands clasped behind his back. “It’s harder to get out of than it is to get in. Who can tell me why?” Turning, he fixed the cadets with an expectant stare. As one, they dropped their gazes to their books. 

Some things never changed.

Raaqiel circled slowly around toward the windows that lined one wall. Sunlight streamed in, just touching the edges of the desks. This was Seikhiel’s classroom, Seikhiel’s class. Raaqiel faced the windows, a cheap trick to hide his expression from the cadets. “No one?” Seikhiel ought to be here. The Fifth Sword’s activities were completely frozen and its officers were now under investigation. The situation did not look at all promising for a soldier whose absence no one could fully explain.

“Because…” ventured a voice that sounded far too timid to make a good soldier, “it’s between and beneath? Because it was made when Spheres were broken, and…”

Raaqiel turned to face the class once more. Elarna, a clever Cherub girl, flushed under his gaze, but she continued.

“And it’s nowhere and it’s everywhere?”

Raaqiel smiled. “Indeed. Interspace is made of the same stuff as Intangibles. It exists outside of time and space as we know it, which makes all travel difficult. All travel.” He arched an expectant brow. The question had no singular right answer, and therefore the students needed to give it due consideration.

“Well,” said a cheeky cadet called Maureil who would probably make Patrol Captain next year, “you can drop a coin through a crack in the floor, but you need to take up the floorboards to get it back.”

The great bell that towered over the Drilling Green gave a single mournful toll, and the class began to gather their books. Raaqiel sighed. “Three hundred words on this topic,” he said, to the collective groans of all the cadets. “Due in precisely one week. You are dismissed.”

No one moved.

“Master Raaqiel?” Elarna hesitated, but her classmates encouraged her to continue. “Sir? Is Master Seikhiel injured?” She trembled, but she held her gaze steady.

“Please, sir,” piped up another cadet, and soon others joined in, begging to know the fate of their missing instructor.

Raaqiel leaned back against the large desk at the front of the room, and he folded his arms across his chest. He knew exactly what he would have done in this situation, and he quickly counted students to make certain no one had rushed off on a hasty and ill-conceived rescue mission.

“You all deserve the truth,” he said quietly, and every cadet leaned forward, straining to catch his every word. “So do I. Unfortunately, all I can tell you right now is that a matter of some urgency called Seikhiel away, and I’m certain he never intended to be gone this long.”

“Something’s gone wrong!”

“We have to help him!”

Raaqiel held up his gloved hand to forestall further outbursts. “Right now,” he said firmly, “I doubt there’s anything any of us can do to help him. It’s hard, I know, but it’s a reality we must accept.” For now. “Anyway, you all need to hurry up. You have an assembly to get to.”

As the cadets rushed out the door, a profound weariness settled over Raaqiel. A rescue mission, huh? Perhaps, if he were three or four centuries younger. Perhaps, if Feriel had never drifted away from him. Perhaps, if Lielri hadn’t…

He snapped that thought shut like the slamming of an iron chest. Now was not the time to wallow in self pity.

He had more classes to cover.

Their assembled company sat in a circle, discussing their next steps, but Ragheiyont struggled to follow the conversation. Blood rushed in his ears, dulling their voices, drawing his attention again and again to Warbringer. The great sword lay unsheathed on the ground between Luccan and Bel. Occasionally, the smith reached out one hand to give the blade an absent caress, and Ragheiyont burned with need.

He shut it down with will alone, but that brought… complications. His eyes itched and ached. His head felt light and heavy at once. His hands had grown uncomfortably hot.

Closing his eyes, Ragheiyont focused on the throbbing in his arm. The bleeding had stopped permanently—so far as he could tell—but the injury remained, crimson and angry, spidered like broken glass over his forearm. It ached almost constantly, an ache to which he now clung, his lifeline in the storm of his own mind.

“Ragheiyont!”

Forcing his eyelids to rise, he found the world tilted sideways. The ground pressed against his cheek, the round little quillworts spiking across his field of vision. The eternally circling sun attacked him from the other side, too bright and far too hot. He shivered beneath its impartial menace. His skin burned and froze in equal measure. Drawing his wings tight, he squeezed his eyes closed again.

“Rahi!”

“NO!” Van-Dal’s voice cut through Tharaiyelagh’s panic, and Ragheiyont knew without looking that the prince held his brother back from him. Good. Long ago, he had left to protect his brother from himself, from his illness. Let someone else protect him this time. Someone more capable.

If he knew that Tharaiyelagh would be safe, perhaps he could let go…

“Ragheiyont.” Strong hands eased him upright, and soft wings encircled him. “You’re babbling.” Fingertips brushed against his lips. He made an unsuccessful attempt to shy from the touch before his groggy brain caught up to the moment. The sharp taste of blood jolted him back to himself.

Sweat slicked his face and his neck, but his hands were cold. Ragheiyont pressed both open palms to Seikhiel’s chest and gawked at him, never once turning loose of the finger between his teeth. Seikhiel smiled.

“There you are.”

A wave of irritation crashing over his moment of euphoria, Ragheiyont pushed back from him. “‘S always me, jo,” he snapped. “Sick or steady.”

“Of course.” Seikhiel recovered with grace. “I thought we were losing you. It…” He glanced down at his hand, which gripped Ragheiyont by the shoulder. “I was afraid.”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Ragheiyont blinked suddenly-heavy eyes at Luccan, who leaned close and bared his teeth at Seikhiel. He wanted a nap, but the two of them looked ready to fight again. “Helping,” said Seikhiel, his voice flat.

“That didn’t look like help,” Luccan accused. “That looked like public lewdness.”

“He’s better,” Seikhiel objected, a note of defensiveness creeping into his voice.

Luccan’s ears flattened. “If you hurt him, I will peel you like an orange.”

“Oh, like how you tried to split my head like—”

“Oya!” Ragheiyont waved his hand between the two of them. His fingers trembled. Fine, he would worry about that later. “I like ya both tip-top, so stuff it, yeah?”

Sitting back, Luccan heaved a tremendous sigh. “He’ll speak like a normal person eventually.”

“You don’t even like oranges,” Seikhiel grumbled, and Luccan hissed at him.

Ragheiyont looked around at all the other faces staring at them, expressions ranging from detached curiosity to horror. Well. He might as well bring the conversation back to a relevant topic. “We got here three by three,” he said. “If that’s the way out, we’re too many. I’ll stay.” He looked to Tharaiyelagh, half hoping for an objection. Tharaiyelagh merely sat in stony silence, his lips pressed together in a grim line. Ragheiyont lowered his head while Seikhiel and Luccan both argued against such a decision, to the tidy effect of making one another’s words unintelligible.

“That’s not necessary.” Bel’s voice cut through their argument and Ragheiyont’s gloom both. “The gates are all one-way.”

Atchi gave him a narrow-eyed stare. “You know a lot, considering that you’ve been in that dirty great tree for three thousand years.”

“Was it so long?” Bel closed his eyes, breathed deeply. “I had a visitor, sometimes. He always departed through the Gate of Eternal Forgetting.”

“I really don’t like the sound of that,” said Tharaiyelagh, and several others muttered in agreement. Ragheiyont wanted details.

“Forgetting what, jo?”

Bel showed double fangs in a sharp grin. “Oh, everything,” he said. “Or so I hear.”

“Uh-huh.” Ragheiyont considered the journey that had brought them here to this sunny hillside. “‘S close?”

Bel nodded.

“An’ it’ll get us back to a world that makes sense?”

“Arguably.”

Ragheiyont pushed himself to his feet. “Right. Which way, then?”

Wherever he is, I hope Seikhiel made a clean escape this time.

Crimson sunset streamed through the tall windows, borrowed light of a fading day. The essays spread across the broad surface of the desk had nothing more to tell him, but he tried anyway. If he could just parse this phrase or that scrawl, if he could do his work a tiny bit better, then perhaps he too could be free. Perhaps he could begin to atone for all the harm he had done.

Lifting his head, Feriel looked out the window. Across the yards, the dying daylight painted reds and oranges across the tops of the perimeter wall. Once, as a cadet, he had crossed that very wall with his friends. Once, life had seemed to him as fierce and bright as the midday sun. Now he too faded, though less beautifully than the daylight. Folding his arms on the surface of the desk, he bowed his head to rest a moment there.

The door opened, then closed softly. Feriel lifted his head and squinted through the gathering gloom.

“What are you doing?”

Feriel looked down. Fidgeting with a pen, apparently. His hands stilled. “Just finishing with these essays, sir.”

“How productive of you.” His footsteps a whisper on the office floor, Niseriel approached. “And?”

And? Feriel made a neat stack with the graded papers. “And—and your lesson plans for next—”

“And Seikhiel?“

Of course.

His mouth gone dry and his heart in the pit of his stomach, Feriel stared straight ahead. Slowly, too slowly, Niseriel circled around to stand beside him. “I’ve tried every locator spell. Every sending.” Feriel drew a slow, careful breath. “It’s as though he simply does not exist.”

“Oh, Feriel.” Niseriel’s fingertips brushed along Feriel’s shoulders. “You can do better than that. I know you can.” Feriel tensed, suppressed a shudder, and Niseriel leaned closer. “Choose to do better.”

Feriel looked down at his clasped hands. Had he done his best? Had he truly tried everything? Did he really even know what he was capable of? “I… can cast the spells again…?”

Niseriel ran gentle fingers over Feriel’s hair, and Feriel just managed not to shy from the touch. “Why do you disappoint me, dearest? Do you enjoy it?” Feriel’s pulse drummed in his ears. He felt hot and humiliated and sick. If he managed to deliver Seikhiel back into their commander’s grasp, perhaps he could have a few moments of peace. It was a weak, selfish thought, and Feriel swallowed it at once, though it just made him feel worse, and the words bounced up like bile.

“I… If I search the library at the Gallery of—of Mysteries…I’m sure there are magics I’ve yet to learn…”

Niseriel turned away with an abruptness that left a rush of cold where he had been. “Do it,” he said. “Go now. Bring him home.”

And he would. As much as he hated himself for it, Feriel had long since given up any pretense of resistance. He only wanted to be left alone, and so he kept trying, kept fighting in vain to become good enough, at last, to escape notice.

As Feriel hurried to comply with this latest demand, he reflected that Seikhiel was likely better off wherever he had managed to hide himself.

His arms wrapped tight around himself, Tharaiyelagh stood under the shelter of Van-Dal’s wing. He should focus on the plan for escaping Interspace, but… For the hundredth time, or so it felt, his gaze strayed to his brother. Ragheiyont grinned and laughed and needled Makesh Luccan, but he looked so frail under the relentless sun. How had Tharaiyelagh missed it before? How had he not seen that his own brother was gravely ill?

Hoarding Sickness. The dread plague. By Seyzharel law, Ragheiyont should be banished, exiled. Not that a thief such as Kleptomancer could be bound by law, but his brother…

Reflexively, Tharaiyelagh reached for the empty place on his belt where the Seal of State belonged.

“This way.” With unsettling confidence, Bel led everyone down toward the foot of the hill. Tharaiyelagh hung back, catching at Van-Dal’s sleeve.

“Please,” he said softly, and Van-Dal tilted his head, listening. “When we are closer to home, will you tell me what your people do…” He gulped a deep breath, then plunged onward. “How you manage the threat of Hoarding Sickness.”

Van-Dal slid an arm around Tharaiyelagh’s waist and pulled him into a brief hug. “Anything you wish of me,” he murmured. Tharaiyelagh felt his face flame crimson, and he turned away. Anything. Had this man not already given him back his wings? He brazenly caught Van-Dal by the hand and tugged him along after everyone else.

Bel gathered them around the curious rectangular pond, and he lifted his chin at Atchi. Atchi stared back at him, tail twitching. Bel’s eyes narrowed, and Atchi made a noise of exasperation. “I want to see the kit do it,” he complained, but Bel shook his head.

Atchi rolled his eyes, but he waded waist-deep into the pond. The surface of the water shivered, then broke into a rainbow iridescence so much like an opal that Tharaiyelagh’s hand flew to the pendant beneath his shirt. North’s opal remained in place, solid and warm. But Atchi had not yet finished with the pond. He drew a deep breath, and he ducked beneath its shimmering surface.

The water sank abruptly, revealing a sloping path and, at its low end, a squat square doorway. Atchi stood beside it, narrowed eyes fixed on Bel, barely damp. Ragheiyont let out a low whistle. Luccan nudged him.

“Let’s go.” Bel led the way down the path, blithely ignoring Atchi until the last moment, when he patted his shoulder and murmured something in a low tone. Atchi’s scowl broke, and he chuckled. One by one, their little company ducked beneath the low lintel and passed through into darkness. In moments, only Tharaiyelagh and Van-Dal remained, hands joined, standing in the fierce sunlight.

Eternal Forgetting.

Forgetting what? Tharaiyelagh took a moment to appreciate all the struggles and triumphs, the suffering and the joy that had brought him to this point. Young though he was, he lived a full life, and he would not trade a moment of it. No, not even the dark despair in a dank cell. He squeezed Van-Dal’s hand. “I don’t want to forget.”

Van-Dal tugged him closer and nuzzled against the side of his horn. “Even if my mind forgets,” he murmured, “my heart will know you.” Then, releasing Tharaiyelagh, he stepped forward and ducked through the doorway.

His hand over the opal pendant, Tharaiyelagh followed him into the dark.

Baleirithys sat in his antechamber, looking down at his wrists. His white linen undershirt had slipped back, exposing the scars there. Oh, yes, the scars had faded with time, and still more under Enci’s careful hands, but he could see them. He could always see them.

The memories came upon him too swiftly: the heavy chains, the cold floor, the chamber dark but for what sunlight filtered through narrow windows high above. He felt the chill seep up through his knees and settle in his bones. He had gnawed through his own meager scraps of clothing as he outgrew them, as they became too tight. Then, denied even a threadbare blanket, he had huddled his wings over himself for paltry warmth, for unreliable shelter.

Try as he might, he could not shake the memories that weighed him down as heavily as the chains ever had. He did not deserve Tharaiyelagh’s open adoration. He did not deserve the affection he always craved from Enci. What did he deserve? The chill? The dark? The weight of the chains?

No.

No, he deserved better. And he would not spend this dark night alone.

Rising, Baleirithys paced across the plush carpet and put his hand to the panel that covered his precious hidden compartment. It slid open. The mirror within showed him his own face, pale and haunted, but he looked away. His fingertips traced the gilt frame, hesitating beside each gleaming blue gem. Who should he call to him? Not Enci, no. Not Thrin, faithful Thrin who had risked his own dear self to feed his captive prince. Nor Laraghn, who might be Yrich or his other unnamed self, nor Thanasc who belonged to Laraghn. Chaighan? Baleirithys tapped a claw against the surface of the mirror. No. Chaighan still needed time to settle, to outgrow chains of his own. Ah…

Gently, Baleirithys caressed one of the blue anchor stones, and the connected thread of magic hummed in response. Of course. In his most troubled times, he could always count on Ceirithi.

The panel slid closed with a soft click, concealing the mirror once more. Baleirithys turned away, but the magic still sang within him, repeating the call over and over until a soft knock at his door stilled it. Baleirithys stood immobile, poised and perfect as a marble statue, and he bade his visitor enter.

Ceirithi stepped softly, closed the door quietly behind him. He gave a shy smile. Never mind that Baleirithys had known him for his entire life. Ceirithi always smiled shyly.

Baleirithys beckoned. Ceirithi came to stand before him, not quite meeting his gaze, until Baleirithys lifted one hand and brushed aside the fall of plumage that he wore across one side of his face, covering the scars there. The scars put there by the same man who had chained Baleirithys, by the monster in the tower, the so-called Sleeping King.

Ceirithi did well not to flinch. He held his ground, held Baleirithys’ gaze. Then, slowly, he leaned into the touch. Baleirithys wrapped both wings around him and drew him close.

“Stay,” he whispered. “Stay with me tonight.”

He felt Ceirithi smile against his neck. “Of course, my prince.”

They stood intertwined, drawing mutual comfort from the embrace. Baleirithys breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the chalk-and-cedar scent of the tailor’s rooms, as well as the warmer smell of Ceirithi himself. Baleirithys took a step backward, drawing Ceirithi with him toward the inner chamber, toward his bedroom.

Another of the anchor threads twanged taught, yanking Baleirithys’ awareness out of the moment and into the swirling reserves of his own magic. He groped for the thread, stretching his mind toward its other end, toward—

The thread fell slack, its song silenced.

“No!” Clawing at his head, his heart, his core, Baleirithys slipped through Ceirithi’s arms. He sank to the floor, huddled in on himself. “No! Tharaiyelagh!”

Tharaiyelagh couldn’t be gone. He had to return. He promised.

“Baleirithys!”

Firm hands yanked at his arms, pulled them clear of his body, and Baleirithys stared in confusion at his bloodied claws. Ceirithi pulled him to his feet, then reached around him to tug the cord that would summon one of the castle staff. Which one of the pages would see him like this, his undershirt slashed through and stained with blotches of crimson? Baleirithys snapped his wings tight around himself. Ceirithi’s arms and wings wrapped around him, holding him, soothing him. Baleirithys tipped his head forward against Ceirithi’s shoulder. He closed his eyes, and he let his thoughts swirl and roil. Not Tharaiyelagh. Please, not Tharaiyelagh. Desperation battered him, and his knees buckled again. He had no strength. Not if Tharaiyelagh was gone. A sound of raw, animal grief rose in his throat, and he tried in vain to push Ceirithi’s hands away.

The door opened, its sound distant and foreign. Across Baleirithys’ bowed head Ceirithi commanded someone to run and fetch Enci. Quickly. Well, that was fine. Enci had seen far worse.

Enci would make it better.

He had to.

Chapter Text

Darkness wrapped around him, sure and steady. It held him like a lover, entwining and protecting and caressing. He was born into this darkness, and this darkness was the whole of his existence. He breathed it. He understood it. He adored it. What sweet simplicity, with the shadows to watch over him and sustain him. He had never known anything else.

Nobody knew him.

Nobody needed him.

Here, in the dark, he could rest. He could rest forever.

Or he might have, if not for that infernal itching.

He twisted around, trying to reach the itch, trying to make it stop. Fabric stopped him. Silk. His arms wrapped around himself, he flexed his fingers, claws eager to tear through his jacket to get to—

To get to—

He drew a deep breath, and he let his arms fall to his sides. Dignity. Someone needed him to conduct himself with dignity.

Nonsense. Nobody here required anything of him. And yet…

And yet some aching hollow deep within him yearned to be needed, to be necessary. To fit just right in a place where he could…

Where he could…

Blood and ice and a hunger he could not name danced just at the fringes of his mind. He needed… something…

Something inside him, deeper than he could reach. He tried, his claws stinging across his chest until they encountered something smooth and rounded. Opal. The thought sprang unbidden into his head, and just then, like a reflex, he reached out with all the magic in him, groping in the dark, groping within himself.

A fine thread of magic, just where it belonged, just where it had always been. It anchored him to…

To…

Did it matter?

Grinding his teeth in frustration, he gave the thread of magic a solid yank. Of course it mattered. Of course—

An image burst upon him, bright as daylight, sharp as broken glass, resonating out of the tiny thread of magic. He—the other him, the one through whose eyes he saw—lay on a sumptuous carpet, spasms of agony convulsing him in on himself by fractions. Blood oozed from a fresh bite to the inside of his elbow, bright red already blackening with deadly poison. Thick, angry scars knitted around his frail wrists, flushing crimson as they flinched and shuddered ever closer to his face.

“You—” snarled a ragged voice from the floor beside him. He rolled his eyes around to look with triumph on the pallid face that lay too close to his own, half obscured by crimson plumage, blackened blood staining bared teeth. “You’ve killed us both!”

The world blurred and faded, but he managed a grimace that felt appropriately smug. “Good.”

The vision broke apart as Tharaiyelagh’s eyes snapped open. “Lord Baleirithys!” he yelped, and at once his own memories flooded back, filling up all his empty places. Looking down, he saw that he clutched North’s opal tightly in one fist.

“Tharaiyelagh!”

Baleirithys snapped upright, scattering bedding in all directions. He blinked in confusion at the sunlight streaming in his open windows, at the sheer curtains stirring in the mild breeze. Morning. When had that happened? The mattress sank beside him. The audacity. He tilted his head toward the intrusion.

“My prince.” Enci leaned close, pressing a hand to Baleirithys’ bandaged chest. “Are you—?”

Cautiously, Baleirithys tested the thread of magic that connected him to Tharaiyelagh. It held fast. His wings sagged as relief flooded his body, leaving him wrung out and exhausted. “He’s alive,” he breathed, and his voice sounded raw and ragged. “My Tharaiyelagh is alive.”

Enci nodded, as though he expected as much. Without invitation, he began conducting a thorough examination of his prince. Baleirithys tried to shake him off, but found he had no strength. With no recourse else, he sat and he glared.

“You need to feed,” Enci said. “And you need to rest. Last night…” He sighed. “My prince. Baleirithys. You frightened us rather badly last night.”

Baleirithys looked down at his hand, caught firmly between both of Enci’s. For a long moment, he said nothing. What, indeed, was there to say? He knew he had wasted much magic, even while tearing open his own flesh. He had raved and raged and flung out everything in him in futile desperation, trying to reach Tharaiyelagh. Even in this weakened, anemic state, he found his cheeks could burn with shame. Then: “Us?” Baleirithys repeated, giving the healer a fleeting frown. He rolled his gaze around the bedchamber until he saw a huddle of a person folded tightly into a chair, feet just peeking out beneath the shelter of his wings. “Oh, Ceirithi,” Baleirithys whispered.

At the sound of his name, the tailor stirred. He stretched, peered blearily around the room, then dragged his chair to Baleirithys’ bedside. “My prince.” Ceirithi began rolling up one sleeve. Baleirithys waved away the offer.

“I’m fine. I don’t need blood so desperately as to take it—”

“You do,” said Enci sternly. He pressed his own wrist to Baleirithys’ lips. His pulse beat through his skin, warm, inviting, dizzying…

Baleirithys flinched away from Enci’s wrist, away from his own growing hunger. “You could at least behave like a civilized person and get a knife,” he grumbled. Seeing the worry on both of their faces, he shrank from his own strident words. “Did I frighten you so much?” he murmured, lifting one hand to caress the curve of Ceirithi’s horns. One trembling hand. Well, there was that.

“Lord Baleirithys,” Ceirithi said baldly, “you look an absolute wreck.”

Well. He simply could not leave his rooms looking an absolute wreck. “Enci, my appointments—”

“Already cancelled.” The healer gave him a knowing smile. “And you, my prince, shall remain in bed until I say otherwise.”

With a soft groan, Baleirithys sank back onto his pillows.

Tharaiyelagh found himself standing in a dimly lit corridor. The walls, ceiling, and floor seemed to form a perfect square, a square that stretched away into a nondescript gloom. His companions milled about without apparent purpose. Nearest to him, Seikhiel sat on the floor, his head tipped back against the wall, his hands limp at his sides. A little distance away, Ragheiyont slouched and picked at his bandages. Bel flicked through forms faster than the eye could follow—the smith was a shapeshifter?—and Tempest devoted his full concentration to inscribing sigils on the wall. The air sizzled with magic, but one source felt stronger than the others.

It felt urgent.

Tharaiyelagh followed the fierce push-pull of magic past Atchi, who drifted aimlessly from person to person. He followed it past Luccan, who finished washing and curled up for a nap. He followed it until he found the twins.

Akieryon and Szearbhyn stood with their hands joined, their foreheads touching, their gazes locked each on the other. Their breathing came slow and shallow. Everywhere they touched, they seemed to blur into one another. Akieryon had said that the balance between Darkness and Light formed the basis for all celestial magic, and here they melted into each another. Szearbhyn tugged, and Akieryon sank forward, sank against him. They nuzzled into one another’s contours, their distinct shapes and shadows blurring all the more. Szearbhyn unfurled wings of black smoke, which immediately lost form and swirled around them.

“No!” Instinct driving him faster than he could process what he saw, Tharaiyelagh leapt forward. He forced his arm between the twins, crying out in pain as the air around them scorched and froze him in equal measure. “Akieryon, stop!” He pushed with all his strength, even as the energy flowing between the twins sapped the magic from his blood. “Akieryon, you have to—you have to help Tempest!”

Akieryon blinked. Slowly, he turned toward Tharaiyelagh. The dark smoke around them turned abruptly to a swirl of luminous white feathers. “Where’s Tempest?” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

Szearbhyn’s lip curled back in a snarl. Dark energy gathered in his open palm. “You dare—”

Akieryon pushed back, hard. “Don’t you dare, Szearbhyn Soul-Stealer,” he growled. “If you try to eat my friend, I will punch you into the middle of next week.”

Szearbhyn gawked at his brother, understanding slowly creeping across his face. The energy in his hand vanished, as did his smoky wings and large, coiled horns. Tharaiyelagh gave a curt nod. “This way.” He led them back to where Tempest had taken to carving the sigils into the wall with his claws. The twins glanced at each other.

“Tempest.” Akieryon pressed up against his side and slipped an arm around his waist. Tempest paused, his head tilted as though listening intently. Szearbhyn pushed up behind Tempest, pushed his plumage aside, and bit the back of his neck.

Stifling a scandalized little gasp, Tharaiyelagh turned away. Leave them to it, whatever it was. He had work yet to do. He strode across to his own brother, and he swatted irritably at his hand. “Don’t pick your bandage.”

Ragheiyont looked at him, studying him as though they were strangers. His eyes narrowed. Then, slowly, maintaining eye contact all the while, he picked at his bandage.

Desperate situations, Tharaiyelagh reflected, called for desperate measures. He caught Ragheiyont by the hand and turned it over, baring the inside of his arm. Tharaiyelagh pitched his voice high and pleading as he lifted Ragheiyont’s wrist toward his mouth. “Please, Rahi, I’m hungry.”

“No!” Ragheiyont snatched his arm away and clutched it to his chest. “You’ll get sick!” And in that moment of panic, his memories crashed back. With a nod, Tharaiyelagh turned to survey the rest of their party. Behind him, Ragheiyont grumbled something about having a mean little brother.

“Yell at me about it later,” Tharaiyelagh said. “Can you wake the Makesh?”

Ragheiyont snorted. “You want me to handle Luccan? Lucky thing I move quick.”

Tharaiyelagh slanted a smile at his brother. “That’s why you’re the man for the job.” He looked around, counting companions, assessing who most needed his help, when a low growl drew his attention. Far down the tunnel, where all sank into shadows, Atchi stood motionless, his head tilted to one side, his ears pricked intently forward, his tail bristling like a waxthistle bloom. Beyond him, something moved in the darkness. Tharaiyelagh broke into a run.

He had accounted for everyone else. Only one person could lurk there. Only one person could frighten and fascinate the fox in equal measure.

Tharaiyelagh’s sudden arrival startled Atchi, and he whirled, lips raised in a snarl, keeping one eye to the shadows beyond. Tharaiyelagh raised both hands in a gesture of appeasement. “I’m not here for you, Atchienna Silvermoon,” he said. A whiplike tail lashed in the dark.

“Tarali.” Ragheiyont skidded to a stop beside him, Warbringer clutched triumphantly to his chest. “Are you sure about this?”

Luccan tackled Atchi. “Who else stands a chance?” Tharaiyelagh whispered, his words almost lost in the cacophony of their yowls. An answering hiss rattled out of the shadows.

“But…” Ragheiyont shifted his weight, shifted his wings with apprehension. “He’s gone feral.”

Tharaiyelagh took a step forward.

The faint light from behind them glinted on bared claws and naked steel. Tharaiyelagh paused, waiting. The wailing of the scuffle between Luccan and Atchi faded into laughter. Ragheiyont scuffed his feet and muttered something to one of them. Ahead of him, deep in shadow, wings flared in warning.

“Tharaiyelagh,” said a voice behind him.

He held up one hand. “Lord Tempest,” he said, forcing his voice to remain steady despite the way his heart jumped in his chest. If harm befell either of these princes… “Walk away.”

Still behind him, Tempest made a thoughtful noise. “I’m charged with your well-being.”

“So is he.” Tharaiyelagh balled his hands into fists, then slowly unclenched them. “If you must remain, at least stand out of striking range.”

“I doubt that’s possible.”

Van-Dal proved his point, feinting once and sliding past Tharaiyelagh to strike at Tempest. An invisible wall of magic wrenched the blade from his hand, and he hissed, widely baring all his teeth as he dropped back and down, landing in a crouch at the edge of the shadows.

“He’s a danger to us all like this,” Tharaiyelagh said, and Tempest made a small noise of agreement.

“I can keep him focused on me until he exhausts himself,” he suggested, “but that could take hours.”

Would take hours. Tharaiyelagh watched as Van-Dal slowly uncoiled himself, decision already made. He took a step forward.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m fixing this.” Tharaiyelagh took another step.

“Don’t cause an international incident.”

Tharaiyelagh took another step forward, and he forced a smile into his voice. “I think I know my obligations as well as you do, my lord.” Another step. Van-Dal’s wings flared in threat. Tharaiyelagh held his hands relaxed at his sides, palms turned forward. He lifted his chin and he looked Van-Dal in the face as he stepped within his reach.

Van-Dal hesitated, his posture straightening a bit as he tilted his head, assessing the threat posed to him by one small, unarmed Seyzharel demon. Unarmed and wingless. Tharaiyelagh shrugged, emphasizing the lack. Van-Dal’s tail lashed with renewed vigor, but he made no move to attack.

“Crown Prince Van-Dal Kiyrst,” Tharaiyelagh said, keeping his voice low and even. “Trueborn son of Tsai-Van, High King of the Second Sphere. You know me. You… you broke the seal on my wings.” At this distance, Van-Dal could end his life with one simple, swift movement. Just the flick of a few well-trained muscles. Meeting and holding Van-Dal’s gaze, Tharaiyelagh stepped into the last of the space between them. “You’ve become precious to me.”

Van-Dal’s tail coiled around Tharaiyelagh’s leg, holding him in place as his wings snapped wide open, then tightly closed, enwrapping Tharaiyelagh, pressing them close together. His gaze sharpened even as the muscles along his jaw relaxed. “Tharaiyelagh,” he murmured as he inclined his head and allowed his lips to brush softly against Tharaiyelagh’s own. The thrill of the touch burned like fresh magic, as though it could replace what the twins had unwittingly drained out of him. “Remarkable little Tharaiyelagh, I owe you a great debt.”

Tharaiyelagh felt a hot blush rush to the points of his ears. “It’s nothing,” he said, in flagrant disregard of his education.

“Nothing?” Van-Dal repeated, a sharp frown creasing his brow. “You risked your safety to give me back my self. How is that nothing?”

“It’s… it was necessary.”

“Necessary and nothing are not the same, little one.” Van-Dal learned in for another kiss, a proper one this time, and Tharaiyelagh made no effort to resist. He was a traitor to his own love for Baleirithys, but he craved Van-Dal’s affection. He craved the soft touches and the lingering glances. The tender caress of Van-Dal’s lips, the low rumble of pleasure resonating from one mouth to the other and back again… 

Tharaiyelagh slid his hands up Van-Dal’s ribs, over the slim blades he had concealed there, and let them come to rest on his chest. He savored one last caress before he gave a firm push. Van-Dal yielded at once, stepping back, only leaving the fingers of his wings draped lightly on Tharaiyelagh’s shoulders. Tharaiyelagh took a bracing gulp of musty tunnel air and composed himself.

“I must examine the diplomatic implications of… this.” Tharaiyelagh gestured vaguely between the two of them. A faint smile playing about his lips, Van-Dal inclined his head.

“Of course.” He withdrew his wings and folded them loosely behind his back. “As ever, you know where to find me.”

Tharaiyelagh nodded. Trying to ignore the hot flush of mingled desire and embarrassment, he turned around. Blessedly, everyone else seemed to be ignoring them. In fact, most everybody clustered together in a tight knot. As though someone had been injured. Catching Van-Dal by the hand, Tharaiyelagh hurried to investigate.

He assessed the situation quickly, noting how everyone seemed to have regained their memories. Everyone except for the one person seated on the floor, the person around whom they all gathered.

Seikhiel.

He stared blankly ahead, refusing to react to Ragheiyont and Akieryon, who both tried to wake him from the enchantment, both with increasing distress. In desperation, Ragheiyont nibbled at the wound from which Seikhiel had so frequently fed him. Seikhiel did not react. Frustrated and despairing, Ragheiyont collapsed into Seikhiel’s lap, keening like a dragon half his age. Seikhiel’s hand moved then, just enough to stroke Ragheiyont’s plumage in an absent gesture of comfort.

“This isn’t like you,” said Atchi, his lip curling. “What are you so desperate to forget?”

The tears welling in Akieryon’s eyes began to spill down his cheeks.

“Is he… broken?” Tharaiyelagh whispered. Van-Dal squeezed his hand in response, but his gaze remained fixed on Ragheiyont, now curling himself as small as he could manage, lying half in Seikhiel’s lap. At least he had quieted.

Luccan sighed a noisy sigh through his nose. Then he crouched, one hand on Ragheiyont’s quivering back, the other on Seikhiel’s shoulder. “Seikka,” he said as he leaned in close, but the rest he whispered directly into Seikhiel’s ear.

Seikhiel made a noise that started as a shuddering gasp and grew into a groan of agony. He rocked forward, curling his body protectively around Ragheiyont. “No,” he managed after a few inarticulate sounds. “No, no, no, no.” He kept his eyes squeezed shut, and he pressed his cheek against the smooth curve of Ragheiyont’s horn, possibly hard enough to bruise. Luccan watched, horror plain in the widening of his eyes and the swiveling of his ears.

“I will mince whoever did this to him,” the cat vowed, and Atchi nodded silent agreement.

Ragheiyont nuzzled into Seikhiel’s protective embrace, offering comfort in the form of murmured words and gentle touches. Slowly, too slowly, Seikhiel relaxed.

Everyone took several awkward steps away from the two of them and pretended to have been doing something else altogether. Luccan did so with great disdain, and Tempest had to be nudged along by the twins, but the illusion of privacy was provided by the time Seikhiel looked up. “Am I the last?” he demanded, his voice a little hoarse. In a moment Van-Dal had moved to his side, offering a canteen without looking directly at him.

“You didn’t want to remember,” he said softly. When Seikhiel merely nodded, Van-Dal added, “One death. Anyone. Anywhere. No charge.”

Seikhiel gave him a startled glance. Tharaiyelagh concealed a frown. Once, Van-Dal had extended a similar offer to Baleirithys, an act of retribution upon the tyrant who had nearly destroyed Seyzharel. He knew that his beloved prince had endured unspeakable horrors, of course he knew, but Seikhiel? The famous Sword of Heaven, hero of the Great Uprising? If Seikhiel had faced such horrors as to want to forget himself forever, well, it stood to reason that such a thing could happen to absolutely anyone. Tharaiyelagh glanced around, at Tempest, at Akieryon, at Bel and Atchi. It shamed him to admit that he had thought Seyzharel unique in struggle, unique in the scars of its people. He edged a little closer to Van-Dal and reached for his hand.

“I’ll consider it,” said Seikhiel, which was more positive a reply than Baleirithys ever gave. His amber gaze rested briefly on Akieryon before returning to Ragheiyont. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you home.”

“Don’t got one,” Ragheiyont sulked as he clambered to his feet.

“You can—” You can come home with me. Tharaiyelagh bit off the words before they escaped. Not until he changed the law. Understanding too well, Ragheiyont gave him a sad smile.

“Don’t you worry about me, little Tarali. I’ll get by, just like I’ve always done.”

Holding back a flood of protests, Tharaiyelagh gripped Van-Dal’s hand tightly. Van-Dal squeezed back, a gesture of reassurance. Now was not the time to sort this matter out. One problem at a time.

“Hey.” Luccan stalked over and gave Seikhiel an imperious stare. “Why are you still on the floor?”

Seikhiel stuck his jaw forward and stared right back. “My foot is numb.”

Chapter Text

Raaqiel almost never wore his dress uniform. The stiff collar forced him to hold his head high, and the lean fit of the jacket would show every line of a slouch. Worse still, it required him to belt his sword on over the jacket, which, when one carried the finest blade in Heaven, was needlessly ostentatious.

Under the circumstances, he could hardly wear anything else.

He stood with his back straight and his shoulders squared. His hands rested at his sides, and his boots—shined beyond all reason or good taste—pointed rigidly forward. He stared at some invisible point beyond the back of Lord Sidriel’s head.

Had he just been called before Lord Sidriel, he would have appeared in his everyday attire, with little care to his supervisor’s opinion. It didn’t matter. The headmaster knew he would do as he pleased right up until the point at which someone threw heavy or pointy objects at him. Had he been called before Lord Michael, he might as well have appeared in his skivvies. No, here he stood, a cramp in his shoulder and a bit of gold braid itching at his throat, facing a long table behind which sat three archangels.

Dammit.

He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, somewhere around the vicinity of Sidriel’s forehead. His hands remained at his sides, gloved fingertips resting against the seams of his white trousers. Every instinct told him to flee, told him that he had finally managed to get himself into a situation he could not talk his way out of. Well, it had to happen eventually.

“You’re not under review,” Sidriel said, as though plucking the thought right out of Raaqiel’s head. His voice sounded flat, and impossibly tired. “We need information only you can provide.”

Raaqiel stole a glance at Michael. He sat with his eyes downcast. His hair was mussed—moreso than usual—and he looked like he had not slept in days. Not since the incident. Raaqiel tried not to think about it, tried not to remember Keilel’s blood, so bright in the afternoon sun.

“Ask, my lords.” Raaqiel met Sidriel’s gaze, and he found it sharp, hardened by a thousand worries. “If it’s mine to give, you shall have it.”

Sidriel produced a folder, which he opened flat on the tabletop. Within lay a too-familiar set of documents, along with papers which must have been taken from Niseriel’s office. Raaqiel kept his expression neutral.

“Your forgery of my signature is nearly flawless.” A hint of amusement flashed across Sidriel’s face before worry and weariness settled back into place. “Why did you tell Niseriel that I had sent Seikhiel on an assignment? The truth, if you please.”

“Because he would have taken offense if I had authorized the action myself.” Taken offense perhaps was an understatement.

“And the action was necessary?”

“Seikhiel certainly thought so.” Raaqiel met Sidriel’s searching stare with far more calm than he felt. If his conduct was not under review, he need not worry about the documents in Sidriel’s hands, and yet a trickle of sweat crept between his shoulder blades. “He meant to pursue it, with or without proper approval.”

“Mm-hm.”

Sidriel cut a withering glance toward his own superior before returning his attention to his unruly subordinate. “Raaqiel,” he said, “I don’t know if you realize the gravity of the situation. You are the last person to have spoken with Seikhiel—”

“Raaqiel.” The third archangel’s voice cut through the conversation with surgical precision. No longer able to ignore his presence, Raaqiel defiantly met his searching green stare. “I have spent the last two days examining soldiers—former students of yours. Every one of them is reluctant to speak to me about their injuries, but when they do, every one of them tells me tales of horror, nightmares writ large across their bodies, inflicted by the hand of a person who had means and motive both to make Seikhiel disappear.”

Raaqiel’s throat constricted against grief and outrage, against spitting his fury in a stream of curses, against the cold dread that mounted within him. He tried to take in what he was hearing, tried to process it all with a cool head. Surely Niseriel had not found some clever means to dispose of Seikhiel. If he had, Feriel would not be pestering him—

Feriel.

Raaqiel stood a little straighter, his jaw set in determination. “I understand, my lords,” he said, his gaze still fixed on the healer. “Lord Raphael, if I may be so bold as to ask?” When Raphael nodded encouragement, the silver ends of his hair swaying across his grave expression, Raaqiel drew a shuddering breath and gave voice to the question he least wanted answered. “Have you spoken with Feriel yet?”

“Not yet,” Raphael replied, his voice softening.

“You must.” Raaqiel fought to keep his voice steady, fought to keep the sick wave of fear from consuming him. One piece of his heart already hung from the Memorial Oak. “He will know everything. He may even have kept records.” If he made Feriel sound important enough, the archangels would use a considerable amount of their abilities to protect him, but Raaqiel knew better than to overstate his case. Instead he waited, his gaze returning to Sidriel.

Sidriel nodded. A warm wave of relief surged over Raaqiel, but it could not silence his gnawing guilt. He had been so lost in his own grief, he had never realized how dire Feriel’s situation had become.

“Seikhiel never told me where he was going,” Raaqiel confessed, and he watched the flicker of disappointment play across Sidriel’s face. “I have a few guesses. Nothing solid, but basis enough to start searching. I’ll pull in all available resources.” He thumbed the hilt of his sword. He had resources beyond the expected military channels.

“Give this your full attention,” Sidriel commanded. “Classes are suspended until further notice. I don’t have the time to take on Niseriel’s curriculum, and I doubt anyone else is up for it.” He gave a wan smile, and it struck Raaqiel that the headmaster was exhausted. His ashen complexion and shadowed eyes spoke of too many long nights and too few decent meals. Raaqiel gave him the courtesy of a fairly decent salute for a change. He had his orders, and his superiors dismissed him to carry them out.

In their presence, he had tried to project a confidence he did not feel. Resources he had, but he could search for months with little progress if Seikhiel truly wanted to remain hidden. Where would he begin his search? The Fifth Sphere was a mess, bad enough to need intervention, but that was nothing new. The Third Sphere and the Fourth Sphere has both seen strange events in recent days, of a less cataclysmic nature, though definitely worth investigation. And the Void groaned, lending false urgency to every little problem.

The cat, Raaqiel reflected, would probably know best.

Time to call in some favors.

“Here, boost me up.” Ragheiyont sprang forward, his wings heaving him into the air with a single stroke before settling, flaring for balance. Tharaiyelagh wondered at his absolute faith that Seikhiel would catch him, would hold him up while he examined the ceiling—and that Seikhiel did indeed catch him, holding him easily about the knees. Ragheiyont licked the tip of one claw and pressed it into the nearly-invisible seam between two of the square slabs that made the walls and ceiling of the corridor. He muttered and he shifted, and Seikhiel shifted with him, keeping him rock-steady while he worked. “Ah-hah.”

Something sighed and shivered, more a feeling than a sound, and some foreign sort of writing lit up on the stone slabs, traced across the ceiling in sweeping curves and odd angles, running the length of the corridor. Ragheiyont dropped back down to the ground and beamed at Seikhiel, who gave him a slight smile and a tiny nod, which Ragheiyont clearly took as high praise. He turned away as color crept up his cheeks.

“This way!” Ragheiyont announced, and perhaps Tharaiyelagh might have followed him without question, but Atchi cleared his throat, and everyone paused.

“You’re very good, little thief,” the fox said with a grin more appreciative than indulgent. “But you can’t read it. The exit is this way.” He indicated the opposite direction with a tilt of his head.

Ragheiyont pivoted in place, and he eyed Atchi with curiosity. “Y’can read it, hey? What’s it say?”

His smile spreading wider than his lips looked like they ought to stretch, Atchi dug into his pockets and began distributing items to everyone. Tharaiyelagh’s notebook. A jeweled earring to Szearbhyn. A black feather to Bel. “I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you have,” he said as he handed back Ragheiyont’s set of lockpicks. “Come find me if you’re interested in an apprenticeship.” He passed a bulging purse to Luccan.

“Don’t you dare,” objected Seikhiel, though Tharaiyelagh was not quite certain which one of them he addressed.

“You picked all of our pockets while we had no memories.” Keeping his tone of offense mild, Van-Dal accepted his royal rubies back with hands that almost trembled. Anyone who did not know him so well would have missed it.

“I picked your pockets while I had no memories,” Atchi corrected, inclining his head in apology. “I must beg your indulgence, all of you.” He pressed something into Akieryon’s palm and closed his fingers over it. “You’ll not find peace until you stop running,” he said, and Akieryon shrank back from him. Shrugging, Atchi turned and handed a signet ring to Tempest. “Let’s go.”

Ragheiyont hesitated, but Tharaiyelagh caught him by the elbow and propelled him after Atchi. “We’ll be back soon,” he said, watching his brother’s face closely. “And then we can work on—”

“We won’t be doing anything.” Ragheiyont jerked his arm free of Tharaiyelagh’s grasp. “I’m an exile, remember? Too sick for the company of civilized dragons.” He shook his head at Tharaiyelagh’s inevitable protest. “It’s for the best. I’d rather die than let you catch it.” His wings slung low in defeat, he trudged onward, following the fox. Tharaiyelagh stood still, watching him walk away again.

Just like when they were children.

No. No, he couldn’t let it end this way. Tharaiyelagh had a home. He had warmth and security and people who cared about him. He couldn’t leave his brother without any of those things. He drew breath to call out to Ragheiyont.

“He will be fine for now.”

Tharaiyelagh managed not to flinch from the voice in his ear, nor from the hand sliding up his back. “But—”

“Hush,” Van-Dal murmured. “Look.” As they watched, Seikhiel and Luccan fell into step to either side of Ragheiyont, bantering across him. Ragheiyont brightened almost immediately, his wings lifting and his steps bouncing along as vibrantly as ever. “He’s not alone.”

Pressing back against the warmth of Van-Dal’s hand, Tharaiyelagh watched his brother walk away from him. “He’s not,” he conceded, and the truth of it yielded solace. “But I will see the law changed. We can’t banish people. We are too few.”

“Brave little Chancellor.” Van-Dal rubbed his jaw along Tharaiyelagh’s horn, until Tharaiyelagh flinched away. He allowed the wing draping over his shoulder, though, just as he allowed the hand sliding from his back to his waist. “I have no doubt,” Van-Dal purred, “that you will change the world.”

Would he? Tharaiyelagh thought of the seal of state, resting for now, locked safely in the Archive. He missed the weight of it, the feel of it in his hand. Soon they would be home. Soon he would stand beside his own beloved prince again. Journey’s end. Impulsively, Tharaiyelagh reached for the hand that had come to rest on his hip. Would it feel strange to go home? To sleep in his own bed? To enjoy Thrin’s pastries and share blood with Chaighan?

Tempest bumped his shoulder against Tharaiyelagh on the way past, an odd but friendly gesture. Startled out of his thoughts, Tharaiyelagh stumbled after him. No need to dawdle. The world was waiting for them.

“The dead have come loose.”

Baaz peered at the child on her knee, who had just uttered a complete sentence, grammatically correct, in perfect Wolfish. “Nipper,” she said, “what did you say?”

The little girl, who refused to answer to any name but Princess, simply stuck her doll’s head in her mouth and chewed with vigor. Baaz frowned. The girl would babble in bits of Dragonish when the mood took her, but mostly she preferred to communicate via growls and squeaks and assorted chittering sounds. Well, she was at that age, wasn’t she?

Gently, Gavi set the lunch tray on a side table. That girl moved around the castle with far too much caution, as though it might all shatter and fall down around her if she breathed too hard. “Did she say something?” she ventured, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Nah.” Baaz chucked the child under the chin, and immediately had to snatch her hands away from snapping teeth. “She jus’ made some growls that sounded t’ my ears like talkin’.” But she liked that Gavi took an interest in the little one’s upbringing. Soon she’d be able to snatch a gliding child right out of the air, sure enough.

As though answering her thoughts, Princess stretched her little wings as wide as they would go. Too small yet for gliding, thank the Old Ones, but the day they grew so large was not all that far off. Dragonlings were a menace from the moment they started testing their wings. At least, Chaighan had been. Baaz smiled at the memories.

“Ffah—chirhi,” burbled the little girl, and a chill crept down Baaz’ spine. Ffah’wchirr was the Wolfish name for the realm of the dead. It was coincidence. It had to be.

“Say that again,” Baaz coaxed, but the child refused. Her sharp little teeth bit through the doll’s leather horns, and she chewed contentedly on the pieces that came off.

Abruptly, the ground bucked beneath them. The walls shuddered and the floor rolled in a way floors should not. Gavi yelped, but she also caught the lunch tray before it could fall from the table. Little Princess stared around her with wide eyes, taking in the swaying curtains and the rattling sconces. In a moment, the shaking had passed.

“That ain’t right,” Baaz muttered, and Gavi’s ashen face registered agreement.

“This is the best I can do for you.” Worry creased Raphael’s face as he gently applied a cool cloth to his colleague’s forehead. “You need rest.”

“Have you been resting?” As usual, Gabriel’s neat, factual words used truth as a cudgel. Raphael turned away, another cloth twisting between his hands, spilling drops of lavender tincture on the kitchen floor.

“I have work—”

“Precisely.”

Raphael looked down at the towel clutched in his hands. “Go home,” he said softly. “Try to sleep. The Void—all of this mess will still be here in the morning.”

Probably.

Gabriel gave him an arch look. “Shall I send Phanuel around to make sure you do the same?”

Raphael made a small, noncommittal noise. His thoughts strayed to his medical files, and the nightmare unraveling therein. Sleep? Who could sleep with the shadows of such cruelty seeping through ink and paper so near at hand? He had so many more examinations to conduct, so many more horrors to record. He may never sleep again.

Gabriel’s chair scraped across the floor. “Two hours. Then Phanuel will check on you.”

Raphael managed a weak smile. “It’s a deal,” he said.

His head down and his hands stuffed in his pockets, Raaqiel hurried through the late afternoon. Shadows stretched away before him, grabbing for the horizon with spidery fingers, but the sun at his back did nothing to warm him. His feet knew the way down the familiar avenue. But how he wanted to run!

He had spent the better part of the day sending messages, requesting favors, ignoring the cold dread settled in his stomach. Now, free of his office, what could he really do? Deeper shadows gathered around him, drenched the road, absorbed his own shadow into their hulking forms. Raaqiel lifted his head, scanning the fronts of the close-set military housing, regimented rows eerily silent in the fading of the day. Too near, someone lurked against a fence post.

Raaqiel felt his blood turn icy, his chest constricting as he beat back familiar panic. He stepped bravely forward. To this archangel he gave his best salute.

“Lord Azrael. You haven’t seen Seikhiel around lately, have you?”

The Angel of Death gave him a thin smile that looked several shades of weariness beyond exhaustion. “Professionally or otherwise?”

“Don’t tease,” Raaqiel said. “I know you won’t break the Rules for me.” Up close, he saw that Azrael leaned more than lurked, the post taking most of his weight and giving only mild protest. Raaqiel hesitated. “Were you… waiting for me?”

Azrael chuckled. “Still so arrogant, pup.” He pushed himself free of the post. “No.” As though Raaqiel needed the clarification.

“Right.” Raaqiel let his gaze drift down the street. The house he sought was there, three down from here. His eyes narrowing, he slanted a dark look at the Angel of Death. A fresh chill spiked through him, and his usual bad attitude settled into place, masking it. He smiled. “If you take Feriel, I’ll have to rip your arm off,” he said in the most amicable of tones.

Azrael paused, as though weighing Nephil strength against his own boundless eternity required actual consideration. “I would stand still for the attempt,” he said at last. “But no. Even one more angel soul would badly overbalance the Void, and all within would spill out.”

“Huh.” Raaqiel chewed on this new information. “That sounds… cataclysmic.”

“Indeed.”

Lucky thing Keilel failed to die. “I guess we’d better find Seikhiel before something bad happens.”

Azrael seemed to will himself fully upright. “Your boss is expecting me. Take care of yourself, Raaqiel.” He stretched, tested his footing, then headed off toward the Academy. It struck Raaqiel that he moved slowly, as though carrying an immense weight.

Shaking away the thought, Raaqiel hurried the short distance to Feriel’s house. He knocked. The magics woven into the door remembered him, and it swung open at his touch.

The house lay dark and still. Tentatively, Raaqiel sidled inside. The air felt heavy, cold. Sepulchral. He looked around the once-familiar rooms, and he found little had changed in the last four hundred years. A clammy pall of disuse clung over most of it, though, as though Feriel had folded in on himself so tightly that he kept his living space spotless, yet failed to actually live in it.

And he was not home.

The vacancy of the house pressed down on Raaqiel even as guilt filled his chest, deeper with every breath, drowning him in the knowledge that he could have prevented this. If he could have plucked himself up from his own grief, if he and Feriel could have clung to one another through their darkest days, Feriel may never have retreated so far from himself, from life, from everything but work. Raaqiel charged out the door, and it slammed closed behind him, hollow and final.

He sank onto the steps, and he sat with his head in his hands.

Feriel would come home.

He had to.

Chapter Text

Iyahi-Ila sat up in bed, leafing through a book about architecture. The topic failed to hold his interest, but beautiful illustrations filled almost every page, showing him what the ruins he knew used to look like. Long ago, lifetimes ago, when dragonkind had made cities. If he thought about it intently enough, he could almost see the drawings come to life, with winged shapes moving between the lines of ink, pausing in the shadow of a graceful arch, laughing and shoving one another through open doorways. Living.

Anyway, it passed the time until Kiile-Kili could visit again.

The healer Enci had had him moved out of the infirmary and into a private suite. Iyahi supposed that must mean he would be staying at the castle a while longer. Not that he was ungrateful—he might well have died without Enci’s intervention—but he missed his brothers. Kiile came to visit him. The others did not. As for the dragons themselves, well, they hardly made for good company. They were few, so painfully few, and many of them had a habit of speaking in hushed tones, as though passing by a sickbed. Everything was too still and too quiet. It unnerved the Hawk prince. Perhaps that was why he looked at pictures and imagined ancient cities full of life.

Right now, his own people were probably laughing and singing and telling tales. In their endless travels across the plains, their seasonal circuit tending territory from Rustwater to the flats below Sulfur Springs, the Hawk Clan was almost never silent. It annoyed the gore-stones out of the Raven Clan.

Iyahi missed them.

With a sigh that heaved the loneliness out of his chest and into the stillness of the bedchamber, he pushed the book aside. If he wished it hard enough, perhaps that boy from the archive would visit again. The apprentice scribe had seemed friendly, if terribly shy. They could talk about the books he had brought, or about his work and his studies. Anything, really, just to hear another person’s voice. Iyahi sagged against his pillows. His leg throbbed in response, reminding him to take more care in moving. Reminding him that he would never be a warrior. Well. At least he had avenged himself.

He held up his hand, letting the scattered light from the beveled glass of the window fall across the back of it, where his new tattoo would be. His first kill. Likely his only one, but his people would sing songs and tell tales, and the deed would never be forgotten. Kiile would see to that.

Iyahi let his hand fall back to his side. He was weak, he reminded himself in a voice too much like his father’s. He would never master the warrior’s arts, never stand beside his brothers in battle. Perhaps he would never even tend a stinging cordvine ever again. What use was he to his people? Perhaps he should simply stay here, among the too-silent dragons. He looked around the room, and for a moment the shadows seemed to deepen, and all the edges sharpened. For a moment, he could see the magic running through the very stones of the castle.

More kinds of strength than merely physical, whispered a voice too near, yet distant and strained. Thought a clever boy like you would have noticed.

Iyahi scowled around at the empty bedchamber as everything faded back into mundane, familiar shades and shapes. Of course he knew that. His own brothers demonstrated a range of unique and useful strengths. Still, he’d rather had his heart set on being a warrior.

A soft knocking came at the door, a tapping so light Iyahi assumed it must be Gavi, bringing him something to eat. He liked Gavi well enough, despite all his father’s admonitions not to trust halfdragons. His father had been wrong about many things.

Iyahi cleared his throat and called for his visitor to enter. The door swung open, but it was not Gavi who stood there. It was the prince of Seyzharel.

“My lord?”

Prince Baleirithys hesitated. He looked like a watery reflection of himself, as though forgetting his own shape. Then, resolving himself, he stepped forward and shook his head. “You’ve nearly died twice beneath my roof. You owe me the use of my name.”

Iyahi gave him a tired smile. “Perhaps.” He tried to push himself into a more upright position. His hip screamed agony through his entire leg, and he sagged, probably pale and sweating. Prince Baleirithys started forward, composed himself, then turned to close the door, almost all in a single fluid motion. This man had spent many decades concealing his emotions. Concealing his pain.

Prince Baleirithys crossed the room and, with effortless grace, settled himself into the chair where Kiile belonged. Then, apparently abandoning pretense, he leaned his elbows on his knees and he rested his chin on his knuckles. His wings settled close against his back, the better to hide his thoughts. His keen dark gaze scrutinized Iyahi. “That foreign spell,” he said, “the one that triggered your trance. What did it feel like?”

Iyahi’s stomach gave a sick lurch. He had tried to forget. He could never forget. Picking up the book again, just to have something to hold, something solid to anchor him, he drew a shuddering breath. “It felt like…” Like everything and nothing. “Like the space between the stars and the darkened sky. Like…” How did one explain such things? “Like the hesitation between sound and silence.” He met Prince Baleirithys’ searching stare. “And it tasted of fear.”

The corridor dissolved. Only a moment ago they had all walked more or less together down the square, dimly lit passageway, and now they stumbled to a collective stop atop a barren plateau. His tail twitching, Atchi glared around at the rocky scenery. That had been unnecessarily dramatic.

“No turning back,” remarked Seikhiel, with more than his usual wryness. Atchi glanced at him, eyes narrowing. Would Seikhiel truly have wanted to turn back? Into Interspace?

Why?

Van-Dal took in the rocks and the purpling sky. He rocked onto the balls of his feet, his wings flaring to test the wind, and he scanned the horizon. A small grin crept across his face. “Come, friends,” he said, inviting everyone but looking only at Tharaiyelagh. “Tonight we dine at my father’s table.”

Atchi’s nose wrinkled. Yes, it certainly did smell like the Second Sphere: dry, naked stone with a hint of sulfur. Bel stepped up to the edge of the plateau and looked down. Pointedly, he turned back to face Van-Dal. “Easy enough for you, but how do those of us without wings get down from here?”

“We’re not going down. The draccs are down there.” He pointed out across a landscape dotted with similar plateaus in varying sizes and heights. “We’re going across.” In the distance, one stone jutted higher than the others. Van-Dal seemed to indicate that as their destination.

Bel opened his mouth for further objection, but at that moment a ball of white light shot toward them out of the sky, and some curious things happened. Akieryon thrust his brother behind him and assumed a defensive stance. Tempest let go of the magic that concealed his dragon form, and he stretched his wings protectively above everyone close to him. Ragheiyont reached for a dagger that was not there. Van-Dal took a smooth step in front of Tharaiyelagh, but kept his hands clear of his weapons. Most curious of all, however, was the panic that flashed across Seikhiel’s face. He looked prepared to flee. Instead, he stepped forward and lifted one hand. The little orb of light came to hover in front of him.

“Seikhiel,” said an excruciatingly weary voice from within the light. “Secondary of the Fifth Sword. You are to report back immediately.”

The light vanished.

Seikhiel stood motionless, staring straight ahead, blank and ashen. Lightless. He drew several slow, careful breaths. Then he turned to Luccan.

“Take care of this dragonling,” he said, and Luccan nodded.

“What!” Ragheiyont yelped, hurt and panic warring across his face. “No! No, y’can’t—”

Seikhiel had already moved on, extending a hand to Van-Dal. “It was an honor to fight beside you.” Van-Dal clasped his hand and nodded. “Bel,” Seikhiel said, continuing like a condemned man, “try to stay out of trouble.”

“Don’t think you can get away this easily,” Bel said, and Seikhiel forced a thin smile for him.

Then he stopped in front of Atchi.

He sighed. “I guess…” Atchi waited for more, but it never came. Seikhiel had no words for his old friend. The shadows in his eyes ran deep, and perhaps he truly believed that this was their final farewell. Atchi yanked him forward into a brief, tight embrace. Seikhiel allowed it, but remained painfully tense. Then, with only a small amount of nudging, he faced Ragheiyont.

Tears already streamed down the young dragon’s face. “Y’can’t leave me,” Ragheiyont whispered, his blue eyes huge, pleading. “I just… We just…” He gulped shuddering breaths. “Please,” he managed. “Everything is better when you’re here.”

Seikhiel caught him by both hands, and he tugged Ragheiyont to him. Their foreheads touched, and their gazes locked. Their shared sorrow choked the air around them, and Atchi found himself aching with imminent loss. “You can’t follow where I am going,” Seikhiel said. “Perhaps someday we shall meet again.” He sounded unconvinced. “Please.” His voice softened, and Ragheiyont held his breath. “I need you to remember, always. Every drop of blood was worth it.”

“Wha—?” Ragheiyont grabbed for Seikhiel, who was already stepping away from him. “Worth what? No! No!“

A soft white light surrounded Seikhiel, and then he was gone.

Ragheiyont sank to his knees. He huddled arms and wings about himself, and he doubled over, bowing his head to the bare stone of the ground. His keening cries rose up on the wind, his grief suffusing the air, choking his companions with mere proximity to his pain. Luccan crouched swiftly at his side, murmuring to him and touching his arm, his wing, his plumage. Ragheiyont’s wailing faded to whimpers, but he remained on the naked stone, defeated.

“Raya.” Van-Dal moved to the other side of him. “You have to get up.”

“Donwanna,” sniffled Ragheiyont. Atchi followed the direction of Van-Dal’s brief glance, and he saw a tight formation of winged creatures on the approach. Van-Dal sighed.

“And I don’t want to carry you,” he said. “But I will do it.”

Ragheiyont lifted his head, his tearful gaze meeting Van-Dal’s steady stare. “Something’s very wrong,” he whispered, and Van-Dal nodded.

“I know, Raya, I know. But you can do nothing to help him if you stay here.”

Tharaiyelagh watched them with sharp eyes, but he said nothing as Van-Dal and Luccan eased Ragheiyont upright. Tempest’s wings had relaxed, but the rest of him remained tensed, ready to spring to action.

“That spell,” he said, mostly to himself. “I don’t know that form of sending.”

Akieryon, who had gone as white as the magic that had unsettled them, nodded. “That was Feriel,” he whispered, his hoarse voice carrying over the barren plateau. “But he sounded… wrong.”

“Wrong how?” demanded Szearbhyn. Akieryon shied from the sharpness in his voice.

“I don’t know. Afraid?”

“I don’t like it,” whined Ragheiyont. “He shouldn’t have left.”

Luccan stood, then pulled Ragheiyont up after him. “He’s a soldier. He follows orders.” His voice had an edge of bitterness, one Atchi privately agreed with. His attention flicked to the sword at Luccan’s hip. Warbringer. The source of many conflicts between his two friends. If Seikhiel’s commander had never sent him to confiscate the dread sword…

A sharp whistle split the air. Everyone turned now, some of them noticing the approaching dragons for the first time. “Friends of yours?” Szearbhyn grumbled as Van-Dal hailed them. The incoming dragons fanned out, two of them breaking formation to circle wide around the plateau, their eyes sharp for any danger. The other three awaited a subtle signal from their prince, then executed a coordinated landing that ended with them kneeling before Van-Dal. Tharaiyelagh tried to edge away, but he found himself held in place by a tail wrapped around his ankle. Van-Dal lifted one hand, and the three newcomers stood. They wore black uniforms, each with an unreasonable amount of weapons hidden in unlikely places. The one with triple loops of satin braid at his shoulder addressed the prince.

“My lord, we’ve been watching for your return.”

“So I see.” Van-Dal looked to the one on his left, a dragonling of perhaps two hundred years. Only a little older than Ragheiyont, anyhow. “Go and have rooms prepared for my companions.”

“We only require one room,” Tempest said, indicating himself and the twins. Van-Dal nodded.

“A proper suite for Prince Tempest and his Clutch,” he said. “Single rooms for everyone else.”

Clutch? Tempest repeated silently. He still had much to learn, it would seem.

The young dragon sprang into the air and sped away toward the distant castle. The apparent leader opened his mouth to continue his report, but the other one interrupted. “Your royal father,” she said, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she spoke, “called off the dracc hunt to send us after you, and then you weren’t at Seyzharel.” She jabbed a claw at her prince. “Where did you go?”

“Tamn,” warned the leader. Tamn ignored him.

“Is this why you ran off on us?” she persisted, gesturing to Tharaiyelagh, who blushed mightily. “Still can’t resist a pair of pretty blue eyes?”

Tharaiyelagh looked like he wanted to sink into the stone beneath his feet. Atchi sidled over to Bel and propped his chin on his old friend’s shoulder, eager to watch the drama unfolding before them. This Tamn, with her short-cropped plumage and her sharp tongue, had a great deal of potential to entertain him. Her tail lashed back and forth. Luccan’s gaze unconsciously followed it.

“Why should my father stop the hunt?” Van-Dal demanded, ignoring his unruly subordinate. The leader’s tail twitched with barely suppressed emotion.

“The tremors, my prince. Calcite Ridge has split, and half of it collapsed into the gorge. Our Lord King is calling back anyone whose mission is not of the utmost urgency.”

“You’re having tremors here, too?” Tharaiyelagh sounded like someone whose mind had already sprung to work on the problem, but an answer would not easily be had.

Van-Dal shifted to stand a little in front of the chancellor—between him and Tamn, to be precise. He frowned against one upraised finger. “I’ve been in Interspace,” he said without preamble. “We all have. All the worlds feel uneasy. We have much to discuss with my father. Come—” He had started to direct the other dragons to the wingless members of their company when Tamn let out a cry of pure joy.

“Oh, Van-Dal!” she exulted, surging forward, her wings raised in play, her tail whipping after. Atchi barely had time to step back before she was upon them, wrapping both arms right around Bel’s waist. “You’ve brought me a redhead!” Bel immediately shifted forms, hips broadening into full curves, waist narrowing, mighty muscles tensed for action. Unbothered, Tamn nuzzled against Bel’s broad shoulder. “If you think this will dissuade me,” the dragon singsonged, “you’re very, very wrong.”

Bel scoffed. “Giving you a better grip.”

“This is why you haven’t met Baleirithys,” Van-Dal complained.

“How about I come visit you tonight?” Tamn purred against the side of Bel’s neck. Bel grinned broadly, showing twice as many fangs as the dragon had.

“I hope you’re scorch-resistant,” Atchi said, drawing a sidelong glare from his old friend.

“Don’t waste your strength worrying about Tamn.” The leader of the group smiled almost apologetically at Atchi. “My name is Rhel. Shall I escort you to our castle?”

“You mean carry.” Atchi’s gaze slid toward Luccan, who recoiled from another of the dragons. He grinned. “It’s acceptable.”

Prince Baleirithys stayed much longer than Iyahi expected. They spoke of magic for a while, and then the conversation drifted, to family, to Kiile, to the future he had secured for the Hawk Clan. Iyahi wished he could think of the future without imagining himself with a limp, perhaps leaning on a stick or a staff, probably tiring easily. Something in his chest ached, and he tried to push it away.

Prince Baleirithys ached too. Iyahi could see it, but he struggled to understand it. Something had gone wrong, had disrupted the world of opulence and relative safety he had built around himself. He shared as much in his silences as in his words, and swiftly Iyahi had sensed they two shared a similarity, a unity of suffering if not of spirit. The voice beyond the edges of the shadows whispered words he could not understand. “Why do you not kill your father?” blurted the boy who had done patricide himself.

Prince Baleirithys blinked at him, the thread of the conversation forever lost, cracks spidering across the fine porcelain of his composure. “I… can’t.” His brows drew toward the blue stone set upon his forehead. “Not if I want to rule. To kill the king is to forfeit my inheritance.”

“What if he wasn’t the king?” Oh, now, what did he mean by that?

“I don’t think there is legal precedent for removing a monarch.”

“He hasn’t been a ruling monarch for over three hundred years,” Iyahi pointed out. “You’ve acted as regent all this time, and you’ve never considered how to get rid of him?”

“It is not my place,” Prince Baleirithys said, absolutely firm on the matter. Iyahi sighed.

“Right, well, maybe I’m discussing this with the wrong prince.”

Baleirithys’ gaze sharpened. “You leave Tempest out of this.”

“Why?” Something buzzed at the edge of Iyahi’s awareness. The shadows in the room sharpened. Something painful lay just ahead.

“Because he will disinherit himself.”

“Hmm.” Iyahi could feel his control of his own words slipping away. He tried to catch it, but it ran like sand through his grip. “Your dragon laws. Are they so inflexible? Where was the law when your so-called king unleashed Hoarding Sickness among his own people?” He should stop speaking. “When he sold his generals and slew a healer?” Why could he not stop? “When he skinned Ceirithi’s face?” Who was Ceirithi? “Tell me, Son of South, where is the justice in your precious law, that it would allow the chains and the cold and the burning hunger—”

“SILENCE.”

Iyahi’s unwanted words stuck in his throat, stopped up at last, and he sagged in exhaustion. Exactly how hard had he fought against them? Prince Baleirithys had gone paler than ever, but he regarded Iyahi with a calm sort of fascination. He stood up.

“You need training,” he said, his voice somehow strained and flat at the same time. “Your raw power is a threat to everyone around you. I know nothing of your gift, but I will research it. In the meantime, I will teach you of the magics I know. We will begin tomorrow, if that is agreeable to you.”

Iyahi’s heart stuttered wildly in his chest. The prince of Seyzharel was offering to teach him magic? Had anyone ever received such an offer? Certainly not anyone of the Hawk Clan. He opened his mouth to agree—perhaps to shout his reply—but he found his voice still stuck. He nodded too vigorously, bouncing in place and sending a fresh twinge through his hip. What did it matter? He would learn magic from Prince Baleirithys himself!

“Good.” Baleirithys gave him a tired smile. “If you will excuse me, it seems I have much reading to do.”

Of course. Iyahi grinned after him as he opened the door. Prince Baleirithys waved one hand as he left, and Iyahi’s voice returned to him. Of course.

Until tomorrow.

Chapter Text

King Tsai-Van lounged sideways in his throne. He had a knee hooked over one arm, and one of his wings draped along the broad back of it. In general, the more he worried, the more he slouched. Today he had practically liquified. Thus far, his scouts had returned no encouraging news. No one knew the source of the tremors, but they seemed to run indiscriminately through all Spheres. No one could tell him anything about the recent sightings of Lost Souls in the Third Sphere. All of his people wanted to get on with their work, but he would not allow them out into uncharted peril. Not without more intelligence.

His Favored Child lurked nearby, filing each claw to a meticulous point, offering absolutely no useful help. Long ago, Tsai-Van had had no intention of declaring a favorite. Then Meitz had challenged and trounced her brothers relentlessly until he had made the formal announcement. Kings were nothing to daughters.

The door at the far end burst open. One of the younger members of the Royal Guard made a skidding landing, sliding on the balls of his feet across the polished floor even as he executed a hasty salute. Meitz grinned a grin too like her mother’s for anyone’s safety or sanity. Tsai-Van suppressed a groan.

“Report,” instructed Meitz, mercilessly not allowing the boy time to catch his breath. He rose to the challenge.

“Prince Van-Dal returns!” he blurted in half a breath. “He brings guests!”

Meitz tucked her file away beside her daggers and squared toward the guard. Her wings flared and her tail lashed. “Where has he been?” She tossed her head and sent a sharp glance toward her father. Shirking. Tsai-Van scoffed at the mere thought. Of all his children, Van-Dal was the most diligent by far. Meitz just resented having to assume some of his duties in his absence.

Tsai-Van had a question of his own. “Guests?” Van-Dal never brought guests home. Indeed, he had few friends outside of work.

“Prince Tempest of Seyzharel is among them.”

Meitz advanced on the poor guard, her interest sharpening to a stiletto point. “The famous Mortal-Born,” she said, eager knives in her words. Tsai-Van put both his feet on the floor and leaned his elbows on his knees.

“Daughter,” he warned, a soft growl underscoring the word. Meitz took a sideways step away from the guard. Favorite or not, she would not dishonor his household with a breach of hospitality. To the guard he said, “Fetch the steward and make all necessary preparations.”

Thus, in short order, his entire household and a small contingent of guards assembled in the forecourt to receive their guests. Van-Dal led the way, a slim Seyzharel youth held tightly in his arms. He set the boy gently on the paving stones before executing a tight turn and landing beside him. As the others touched down around them, Van-Dal began to introduce his guests. Prince Tempest first, of course, followed by a real Makesh who looked like he would like to be anywhere but here. Then Van-Dal introduced the youth who so drew his attention, who was apparently chancellor of Seyzharel. Well, that explained some things. From there the order of precedence grew murkier and the company more troubling: the Soul-Stealer and his twin, the fox Silvermoon, the chancellor’s brother, and apparently the fabled swordsmith Bel. Tsai-Van looked a question at his son, who shrugged and gave a sideways flick of his tail. Explanations would come later.

Tsai-Van spoke words of welcome, then gestured for his steward to take over. As the guests fell in behind him, heading toward their prepared rooms, Tsai-Van sidled up to the chancellor’s brother.

“Nice work on the Heartstone.”

Kleptomancer startled, then gawked at him for a moment before recognition dawned. The poor youngling looked positively heartbroken. “Oh,” he said. “Thanks. Seems a long time ago now.”

Baleirithys’ chancellor’s brother. Would wonders never cease. Tsai-Van inclined his head. “You must tell us the tale over dinner. Rest now, child. Be well. You are most welcome under my roof, so long as you don’t steal from me.”

Kleptomancer found a shadow of a grin for him. “Ya gonna tell Atchi the same?”

“The fox is old. He knows better than to break hospitality.” A youth scarcely out of his first century, born into the broken kingdom of Seyzharel, perhaps would not know enough to honor such bonds.

Young Ragheiyont gave a vague nod, accepting the reply. He worried absently at his right hand, then, catching Tsai-Van noticing, thrust both hands in his pockets and hunched his wings. The signs were unmistakable. Fresh wounds to the boy’s heart bled all over his every movement. If only Tsai-Van could comfort him—but a young male’s heart might as well be made of glass. This recent rejection would no doubt make him stronger in time.

Another ending. Another beginning. Akieryon sat at the edge of the bed, worrying about Feriel, worrying about Seikhiel even. Here he was, freshly washed and dressed in borrowed finery again, while something had gone horrifyingly wrong in Heaven. But what could he do? He was a fugitive, a deserter. Surely he must be powerless to help.

Rolling over across the luxurious bedclothes, Szearbhyn bumped his damp head against his brother’s hip. “Don’t look so glum,” he said. “We’re about to feast with dragons. They always put on a good spread.”

“Feriel didn’t sound right,” Akieryon muttered.

“Yeah, but is that your problem?”

Was it? More to the point, should it be?

Akieryon still chewed on the question when Tempest returned from washing up. Squeezing water from his long, two-toned hair/plumage, he addressed a question to both twins: “What’s a Clutch?”

“I guess we are,” said Szearbhyn unhelpfully. “Although you did collect us before becoming all dragonified.”

“That’s not a word,” Akieryon said, giving his brother a playful shove. To Tempest he said, “In dragon culture, it’s common for mature adults to gather an extremely close-knit group of individuals that they protect and nurture. While there is some functional overlap between Clutches of males and females, the groups are usually distinct, and fulfill different roles. Most of the time,” he added before Tempest could ask, “a female’s Clutch is focused on the raising of young, which can be a bit violent at certain ages.”

“You sound like a textbook,” Szearbhyn grumbled.

“Huh,” said Tempest, his thoughts already drifting elsewhere. He pursed his lips. “Do you suppose my father has a Clutch?”

“Honestly, I don’t know him well enough to speculate.”

“He’s not nurturing,” Szearbhyn said flatly. “I think that disqualifies him from having a Clutch.”

“You’ve only ever been on the receiving end of his ire,” Tempest pointed out. He tossed his towel aside and twisted a few loose plaits into his hair. “Get dressed. You don’t want more dragons pissed off at you, do you?”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Szearbhyn shot back, grinning.

“Of course I am.” Tempest leaned over him, all smug victory. “You’re part of my Clutch.”

“I resign.”

“Actually,” Akieryon said, sounding like a textbook on purpose, “one does not leave a Clutch to strike out on his own without consensus approval that he is mature enough to do so.”

Szearbhyn opened his mouth to object, but Tempest spoke over him. “No,” he said. “You’re not.” Akieryon grinned.

Van-Dal’s people had provided Tempest with princely attire, layered in yards upon yards of black velvet and black satin and black suede with fine black embroidery. He wore the borrowed garments easily, as though he had not considered wearing something of his own, not even for a moment. Perhaps he hadn’t. 

Akieryon thought about standing up and crossing the small distance to Tempest, thought about running his hands over all those luscious textures… Making them late for dinner with the king. Shamefaced, Akieryon averted his gaze. Tempest noticed. Tempest always noticed.

Extending one hand, Tempest beckoned to him. Rising, Akieryon slid both arms around his waist. For a fleeting moment, he wanted to beg for a kiss, but he knew better. Tempest disliked such things. Instead, he buried his face in Tempest’s neck and contented himself to inhale the scent of soap mingled with that unique voidspace and magic smell he knew so well.

“Tell me what’s troubling you,” Tempest rumbled against Akieryon’s ear. With a soft sigh, Akieryon held on tighter.

“You’re not going to like it.” Caveat delivered, he launched into a hasty explanation of how Feriel’s message and Seikhiel’s recent behavior had left him feeling uneasy, how he worried for the people he had left behind. Tempest held him at arm’s length and regarded him with a grave expression.

“You’re worrying about the people who cast you out.”

“Technically, I ran away,” Akieryon corrected. He could feel his face reddening, but he kept his shoulders squared and his chin lifted.

“They didn’t deserve you,” Szearbhyn said.

“They weren’t all cruel to me. Feriel always tried to be fair with everyone, and now he sounds—” Broken. “He sounds like…” Akieryon struggled for words. “Um.”

“Forget Heaven,” Szearbhyn urged. “They only ever did you wrong.”

Akieryon reached for Tempest’s hand, clasped it tight, and pressed it to his heart. “Feriel sounds the way I felt,” he said softly. “When I was locked in darkness.”

Perceptive as ever, Tempest tilted his head, a small frown shadowing his brow. “You say that so I won’t object to you leaving.”

Akieryon met his gaze steadily, projecting a confidence he himself questioned. “I’ll come home,” he promised. “I’ll always come back to you.” I have to do this, and I have to face it alone. Please understand.

“If you don’t,” Tempest warned, “I will come for you.”

An unspoken promise hung between them: Tempest would destroy anything and anyone that stood in his way. Akieryon should have worried, but he only felt reassured.

The fading sun gilded the graceful walkways and the broad sweep of the curtain wall. From his high vantage, Baleirithys watched the shadows deepen across the plain below. The usual evening wind howled along the cliff faces, keening for him to leap, to ride their perilous currents into the nightfall. He could do it. He could test his wings against the dying of the day.

A hand on his arm stayed him.

“He’s coming home.” It was not a question. Looking away, looking anywhere but at Enci, Baleirithys nodded. The wing over his shoulders surprised him, and he spared a sideways glance. Enci smiled. “My prince,” he said, “I know—”

“You know nothing,” Baleirithys interrupted, too sharply, spilling more hurt across the wreckage of what they might have been together. “I thought he’d died,” he added in a whisper that tore at him more surely than the rising gale did. He had thought he’d lost the ability to hurt so much. He had been wrong. “I can’t lose him.”

“I know,” Enci murmured, not flinching, not looking away. “He eases your burdens. He gives you hope.”

A small, sullen part of Baleirithys wished that Enci could muster at least a speck of jealousy. “Clearly hope only brings pain,” he snapped. “What use have I of hope?” But he knew. Hope had kept him alive—not his own, but the hope of his people, given into his keeping, depending on him to forge a better future for Seyzharel.

“Baleirithys.”

He sighed. This was the part where Enci chided him for his self-indulgent misery. He braced himself for more sharp words.

“I know how much it hurts, knowing that someone you care about so deeply is beyond the reach of your protection.”

Baleirithys flinched. Harsh words would have stung less. Enci might as well have struck him, invoking the past like that. “I was never yours to protect,” he said, his voice as tight as the muscles knotting along his spine.

Enci made a noise that conveyed doubt while not directly disagreeing. “I am a healer,” he said. “You are my prince.” He tilted a knowing smile toward Baleirithys. “Let’s get you indoors,” he added, a note of teasing rising in his voice, “before you decide to do anything foolish.”

Baleirithys remained still, his gaze fixed across the plain. “I want to watch the sunset.”

Enci slipped a brazen arm around his waist and turned him. “Then perhaps you should face west, my lord.”

Every muscle in Baleirithys’ body ached to sag into Enci’s embrace. Instead, he held himself perfectly upright, a graceful marble statue of a beautiful prince. Pride sustained him as surely as hope ever had.

“Don’t leave us,” Enci whispered, his voice almost lost in the evening wind. “Please.”

All at once, Baleirithys felt his shell of pride fracture and crumble away, leaving him cold and lonely. Had he wanted to flee? Probably. None of these dreadful emotions served any purpose beyond plunging him deeper into misery and doubt. Slowly, as though trying not to frighten a small animal, he reached for Enci’s hand. “I’m done running away,” he said, and he almost believed it. Enci’s answering smile made him want it to be true.

Well. He could try for a small measure of Tharaiyelagh’s courage, couldn’t he? He could start right now.

Baleirithys slid a sideways glance at Enci. The fading daylight caught at the gold in his plumage and brought out the bronze undertone in his skin. Still so lovely. I could blood you right now. “You’re overdue,” he said instead, like a coward.

A hint of a smile played at the corners of Enci’s mouth. Even as he drew his wings in tight against a sharp gust, he offered up his wrist, offered his warm and willing flesh. Baleirithys stared for a moment, his heart hammering against his choked throat, watching the place where Enci’s pulse beat just beneath the surface of his skin. He blinked. He looked away.

“Of course,” said Enci, his voice softened to hide any lingering emotion. “Shall I come to you in private tonight?”

Never mind that they were utterly alone on the windswept rooftops. Baleirithys managed a small nod. Later. Perhaps later he could manage to shore up his courage.

Young apprentices fetched the guests more or less in order of precedence, though Prince Tempest arrived with his Clutch in tow. Akieryon comported himself with military dignity. Szearbhyn Soul-Stealer gawked at the gemstone sconces before throwing himself into the chair meant for the Makesh. Much to his credit, Tempest managed to persuade him to move to his proper seat. Soon they had all assembled, all dressed in borrowed shades of black, though Chancellor Tharaiyelagh’s hems were trimmed in fierce Seyzharel blue. Tsai-Van smiled at the tableau they presented.

The younger thief, of course, would be a problem.

Ragheiyont sat in sullen silence as light conversation rolled around the table. He held his wings hunched close, and though he looked nowhere but at his own plate, it seemed to Tsai-Van that he had been weeping. In response to his father’s raised eyebrow, Van-Dal only shook his head. Leave it be. Fine. 

Tsai-Van insisted on hearing of his guests’ recent adventures, and the tale did not disappoint. Bel sat as rapt as the king, listening to the ordeals of her rescuers, reacting at all the right moments. Tsai-Van would not have expected such manners from someone who had spent so many centuries in isolation, but perhaps she simply basked in the friendly company. She nodded along as Van-Dal praised Ragheiyont’s courage in the face of near-certain death. Ragheiyont looked at his right arm and said nothing for a long while. Then, as Van-Dal described how Ragheiyont had opened the ancient gate and saved them from the Lost Souls, the young thief blurted out, “Never woulda made it that far without Seikhiel.”

Akieryon shifted a little in his seat. Prince Tempest gave him a soft nudge. Half the company wore expressions ranging from faintly anxious to vaguely funereal. Tsai-Van’s eyebrows rose. “What happened to Seikhiel?”

“He went home,” Makesh Luccan said shortly. Had he a tail, it would have lashed beneath his chair. Home, Tsai-Van reflected, was probably the worst place Seikhiel could have gone. It was too close to the source of the tremors.

“Doing his job, I suppose,” he said instead, causing a few more worried glances to fly around the table. He encouraged his guests to continue the tale, and Prince Tempest obliged. As he described how Tharaiyelagh’s aptitude for deciphering archaic Dragonish had saved them, the young chancellor turned a flattering shade of pink. Van-Dal watched him closely, which Tharaiyelagh pretended not to notice.

“It wouldn’t have mattered if you hadn’t held back all that smoke and ash and… and…”

“Magma,” said Akieryon. “It’s called magma if it’s underground.”

Tsai-Van’s eyebrows shot upward, and he revised his opinion of the Seyzharel prince. He may be new to being a dragon, but he was already formidable. “I see that Prince Baleirithys has been keeping secrets,” Tsai-Van remarked mildly.

“Tempest has always been terrifying,” Szearbhyn Soul-Stealer said, settling back in his chair with a smug, proprietary sort of slouch. “I’d say scarier than all you lot together, but that Unsealing makes me wonder, just a bit.”

Tsai-Van looked to his son, who nodded. Tharaiyelagh described Bel’s liberation, and the king felt satisfied that his people’s secrets remained safe. It must have cost Van-Dal dearly to break so powerful a Holy seal, but he had not let his companions see that it weakened him. Good. Tsai-Van’s son and heir safeguarded their livelihoods, even deep in Interspace, even while clearly besotted with a charming Seyzharel boy. Not that he had ever had cause to doubt Van-Dal. Smiling, the king lifted a glass to his son. The smile Van-Dal sent back looked a little weary around the edges. Indeed, everyone at his table looked ragged and tired, despite their best efforts to clean themselves up. Everyone except Bel, who, fresh as a dewy nightshade, helped herself to a third serving of the dracc roast. Tsai-Van let the gathering wind down with the conclusion of their tale. They could make an early night of it, and he would speak privately with his son in the morning. If the morning came at all.

Ah, well. A king had to be prepared for every eventuality.

Late in the evening, Tharaiyelagh sat wrapped in silken pajamas and a warm robe. He was clean and fed, and he had just finished his evening preening. The luxurious bed awaited. If only he could persuade himself to stand up.

A knock at the door startled him into dropping the buffing cloth he still held. He should have expected a visitor. Should he have expected it? Yes. Maybe. He hurried to the door and he opened it.

The wrong person stood there.

King Tsai-Van tilted his head to the side, almost grazing the door frame with one horn. “May I come in?”

Struggling to collect his wits, Tharaiyelagh nodded and stepped back. The king had to stoop his wings a little to enter. He looked rather like his son, Tharaiyelagh reflected, but older. And larger. And pointier. Tsai-Van gestured toward the bed as he himself sank into the vanity chair. Tharaiyelagh sat.

“Chancellor.” The king’s smile was Van-Dal’s smile, slow and reassuring. “It strikes me that you and I can come to understand one another very well.”

Tharaiyelagh glanced down at his state of undress. “Your Majesty, I don’t know if this is a good time for politics.”

King Tsai-Van waved a dismissive hand. “Relations between your Sphere and ours are good. I’m here about personal matters.” He watched Tharaiyelagh tense. “My son has expressed his intent?”

Blushing, Tharaiyelagh clasped his hands between his knees. “He… yes.”

“And?”

Tharaiyelagh searched for the right words. “I belong to Lord Baleirithys,” he said at last.

The king of the Second Sphere held him with a level gaze. “In what regard?”

“I owe him my fealty and my life.” Tharaiyelagh tried to keep his own gaze steady. “I can’t in good conscience return Prince Van-Dal’s affections without my lord’s approval.”

“Hmm.” King Tsai-Van turned the fallen polishing cloth over with the toe of his boot. “I think it would help to heal the fear between them if they were both a little in love with you.”

“Your Majesty?” Tharaiyelagh gasped, shocked as much by the frankness of the statement as the content. He tried to imagine Van-Dal afraid of anything. “They’re friends…” he ventured, scrabbling for a scrap of understanding.

“Oh yes. They have been for most of their lives. Van-Dal would skin his own forearm before he would allow harm to come to Baleirithys. And yet…”

“The poison!” Tharaiyelagh gasped, realization as sharp as the phantom memory of the time his prince lay dying. “He got it from Van-Dal!”

With a slow nod, Tsai-Van rose to his feet, and Tharaiyelagh scrambled to stand as well. “Baleirithys was right to risk himself to defeat the tyrant,” he said, “but Van-Dal has struggled to forgive himself for not realizing exactly what he meant to do.”

“I don’t know how I can help.”

“Keep doors open. Maintain channels of communication.” Tharaiyelagh nodded along, for this was nothing more than doing his usual job. Then, with a wry little half-smile, Tsai-Van added, “When the time comes, you must be strong.”

A chill crept up Tharaiyelagh’s spine. “Are there such troubles ahead?”

Reaching out, Tsai-Van engulfed Tharaiyelagh’s hands in his enormous ones. “Oh, child,” he said softly. “Always.” His gaze pinned Tharaiyelagh in place, quickening his pulse and drying his mouth. “But stout hearts endure. I have great hopes for you, Chancellor.”

Tharaiyelagh managed a small bow. “I aim not to disappoint,” he said. King Tsai-Van appraised him for a long moment, then nodded and took a long step back.

“It will do,” he said. “For now.”

In the smallest hours of the morning, Bel arose from her bed and fastened Atchi’s kilt around her hips. The enthusiastic young guard had gone at last, off to get a little rest before reporting for her morning duties, leaving Bel alone in the dark once more. Restless energy rattled along her nerves, unslaked, needing a direction. Bel shrugged carelessly into a rumpled shirt as she crossed to the low-burning fire. The fireplace was large enough. A single candle flame would have been large enough.

Bel reached down into the struggling flames, plunging both hands directly into the embers. After so many centuries, it still only took a moment before her fingertips brushed against the filaments of ideas that underpinned reality. She closed her hands into fists, gathering filaments into threads, twisting threads into cords, and she gave a mighty pull.

The fireplace opened up into a forge. Her forge. The flames danced higher, leaping in response to Bel’s satisfaction. Taking the leather apron from its hook beside the anvil, Bel put it on like a second skin. Never mind that this bedroom in this castle belonged to dragonkind. She was home.

Bel unwrapped Ragheiyont’s nasty little dagger, and she placed it carefully in the coals. “Let’s get you fixed up,” she murmured to it as the flames edged over to devour the leather and wood of the hilt. She cranked the bellows, coaxing the heat higher and higher, burning the past from the dagger until all that remained was metal and concepts. The idea of a dagger, the idea of cutting away barriers, all feathering away into sloppy execution. Bel reached for it with her tongs. Her hands could withstand the heat of the forge, but she would not touch a blade until she had refined the chaos of its ideas into something better to work with. The remnants of Wardbreaker needed to be compressed.

Bel moved the glowing metal to her anvil, and she took up her hammer. She tested its familiar weight in her hand, and she smiled. Nothing—no fine feast, no warm bed, no lover’s caress—had ever felt half so good.