Shadow hive cell
Location unknown

Lukas Grey roars back to consciousness, gasping for breath.

He finds himself bound by dark vines on a cavern floor in some type of prison, his cell’s bars made of dark smoke, a much larger cavern just beyond. Every affinity line in his body is painfully taut, his magic stretched by overwhelming force. His gaze darts wildly around, haze spitting across his vision as he’s caught up in one desperate thought.

Elloren!

There’s no trace of her anywhere.

He remembers that final, agonizing glimpse of her through the portal’s golden interior, screaming his name. His right fist clenches, yearning for a wand as he’s seized by desperation.

Scanning the cavern, he takes in every last detail—the young Level Five guard just outside the wavering bars. The bizarre stacked catacombs rising up the sides of the colossal vaulted cavern. They seem to go on forever, like a huge wasp nest. Mage soldiers with glowing gray eyes are emerging from the waspish cells and climbing down with unnatural agility, more gray-eyed Mages striding industriously through the cavern. A few of them lead multi-eyed dragons marked with Shadow runes, the dragons’ powerful bodies rendered to shades of steel.

He spots a soldier he knows, Curren Dell. He remembers Curren as a talented, idealistic Level Four soldier-apprentice back in Verpacia, well-liked and eager to defend the Magedom. Horror tightens Lukas’s gut as he takes in the blank, feral look on the young man’s face.

Lukas slants his eyes upward and takes in the corrupted Marfoir Elves scuttling up the walls on salt-white spider legs and the elongated, many-eyed wraith bats that hang from every outcropping. Shadow-polluted scorpios line the cavern’s base, the huge insects quietly chittering, their thoraxes marked with Shadow runes. Most of the scorpios have additional eyes, and Lukas spots one with a neck and head covered in a solid mass of them.

The power in his lines fires up, hot in his chest. He scans the scene once more, gaze flickering toward the wand grasped in his guard’s green-glimmering hand. Stealthily, he begins to test his Shadowy bindings and finds a slack portion just over his left hand...

As if sensing his fledgling rebellion, the guard meets Lukas’s eyes with a pitiless gray stare and lifts his wand.

A bolt of Shadow hits Lukas, triggering a blast of pain that arches his spine, a rasping cry forced from his mouth as his vision blots out.

When he comes to, he’s in motion, four Mages dragging him through a black stone tunnel. Torches burning with silver-spitting gray fire cast a fitful pewter light.

He grits his teeth as his back slides against the rough floor, the wounds that crisscross his skin a knife-slicing agony. He flexes his muscles, testing the tightness of his bindings. Locating the proximity of every wand...

His Mage guards slow, and Lukas twists his head around to find Vogel striding toward him, pale green eyes blazing. There’s a white bird emblazoned on Vogel’s priestly tunic, his dark cloak flowing behind him.

The Mage soldiers dump him at Vogel’s feet.

Panting from the pain reverberating through his lines, Lukas forces himself to his knees. He meets Vogel’s gaze dead-on and gives him a vicious smile. “Hello, Marcus. The demon-priest aesthetic suits you.”

Vogel rears back and strikes Lukas across the face, white-hot rage igniting as Lukas lunges for him only to be quickly bound up in more Shadow vines by the surrounding Mage guards and pinned to the floor, arms outstretched, their four wands leveled at him.

He glares up at Vogel, teeth bared as fury pulses through him. “I’d like to see you try that without your Shadow pets to hold me back,” Lukas hisses.

Even through his all-encompassing rage, he can’t help but notice the flash of frustrated fury in Vogel’s eyes.

“Ah,” Lukas chides, ignoring the blood streaking his face and the throbbing pain in his cheek. “Have your plans gone awry?” He broadens his smile, hoping to goad Vogel, desperate for information about Elloren. “She’s slipped out of your grasp, hasn’t she?”

Vogel narrows his gaze and runs his fingers over his Wand, looking more composed now, though his eyes are strangely edged with silvery fire.

“You had so much potential.” Vogel shakes his head. “I should have known you’d be a problem from your casual blasphemy, but I believed your loyalties to be true. Instead, you’ve done everything in your power to turn my Black Witch into a staen’en whore set against everything pure and good. And now, you will atone for it.”

Vogel raises his Wand, and Lukas gasps as his Shadow bindings briefly turn razor-sharp, cutting into his skin like curved knives. He battles back the cry threatening to rip from his throat.

Instead, he forces a chiding laugh. “Elloren has more power than you. And she’s going to crush you with it.”

Vogel’s lips lift. “Did you know the Icaral, Yvan Guryev, survived?”

A bolt of jealousy darts through Lukas’s power.

Vogel’s smile widens. “Oh, I felt that.”

Alarm strikes. “How?” Lukas rasps, rattled by Vogel’s reveal of power-empath abilities.

Vogel slides onto one knee, a calculating glint in his eyes as he lifts his Shadow Wand and presses its tip to the palm of Lukas’s wand hand.

Lukas shivers as tendrils of Shadow course from the Wand to flow over his fastlines. “What are you doing?” he demands, his composure breached.

Vogel eyes him slyly, as if to say, Ah, got you. “Infiltrating the spell,” he states. “To connect to my Black Witch.”

White flashes through Lukas’s vision, a growl escaping his throat as he hurls every ounce of his formidable strength against his bindings. “I’ll kill you,” he lashes out, mind storming. “I will kill you if you touch her.”

Vogel’s voice is low and mocking when it comes. “Does it bother you that the only reason you survived my fire is that the Icaral’s taint is all over her? Because of his deep, serpentine kiss?”

Another blaze of jealousy commingled with hatred for Vogel overtakes Lukas as the reason for his survival falls into place—Elloren’s Wyvernfire. From her bond to Yvan Guryev.

“Join with me,” Vogel challenges, serious, his eyes flashing. “Together we can smite Yvan Guryev and raise Elloren to great power.”

“Ah,” Lukas chides, ignoring the blood streaking his face and the throbbing pain in his cheek. “Have your plans gone awry?” He broadens his smile, hoping to goad Vogel, desperate for information about Elloren. “She’s slipped out of your grasp, hasn’t she?”

Vogel narrows his gaze and runs his fingers over his Wand, looking more composed now, though his eyes are strangely edged with silvery fire.

“You had so much potential.” Vogel shakes his head. “I should have known you’d be a problem from your casual blasphemy, but I believed your loyalties to be true. Instead, you’ve done everything in your power to turn my Black Witch into a staen’en whore set against everything pure and good. And now, you will atone for it.”

Vogel raises his Wand, and Lukas gasps as his Shadow bindings briefly turn razor-sharp, cutting into his skin like curved knives. He battles back the cry threatening to rip from his throat.

Instead, he forces a chiding laugh. “Elloren has more power than you. And she’s going to crush you with it.”

Vogel’s lips lift. “Did you know the Icaral, Yvan Guryev, survived?”

A bolt of jealousy darts through Lukas’s power.

Vogel’s smile widens. “Oh, I felt that.”

Alarm strikes. “How?” Lukas rasps, rattled by Vogel’s reveal of power-empath abilities.

Vogel slides onto one knee, a calculating glint in his eyes as he lifts his Shadow Wand and presses its tip to the palm of Lukas’s wand hand.

Lukas shivers as tendrils of Shadow course from the Wand to flow over his fastlines. “What are you doing?” he demands, his composure breached.

Vogel eyes him slyly, as if to say, Ah, got you. “Infiltrating the spell,” he states. “To connect to my Black Witch.”

White flashes through Lukas’s vision, a growl escaping his throat as he hurls every ounce of his formidable strength against his bindings. “I’ll kill you,” he lashes out, mind storming. “I will kill you if you touch her.”

Vogel’s voice is low and mocking when it comes. “Does it bother you that the only reason you survived my fire is that the Icaral’s taint is all over her? Because of his deep, serpentine kiss?”

Another blaze of jealousy commingled with hatred for Vogel overtakes Lukas as the reason for his survival falls into place—Elloren’s Wyvernfire. From her bond to Yvan Guryev.

“Join with me,” Vogel challenges, serious, his eyes flashing. “Together we can smite Yvan Guryev and raise Elloren to great power.”

Lukas lunges for Vogel’s Wand through a loose binding, but Vogel flinches back, viper fast. He flicks his Wand, Shadow vines flying from its tip, and Lukas grunts as his wand arm is wrenched outward. He glares murderously at Vogel as the gray cast to his vision intensifies and he stiffens, hit by what that means.

“You’re going to join me by choice or by force,” Vogel calmly imparts. He tilts his head, his expression turning almost sympathetic. “As will my Black Witch. She’s lost her way, but I’m going to help her redeem her very soul. Elloren is going to fulfill the Prophecy, slay the Icaral demon, and cleanse the East.”

A rush of protective love overtakes Lukas. Stronger than his jealousy of Yvan Guryev. Stronger than anything on Erthia, the protective surge intensifying as a horrifyingly multi-eyed raven flies down to light on Vogel’s shoulder.

Find Yvan Guryev, Elloren, Lukas rages. Find him and anyone you can with any power to ally with. Free yourself from our Sealing spell and unbind your magic.

Then light this bastard up with the full might of your Black Witch power.

The Dyoi Forest
Eastern Realm

Elloren.

Yvan’s deep voice shudders through me, quickening my pulse. The flame aura encompassing me flashes through my vision, overtaking it with chaotic gold as the hostile purple forest surrounding me cuts out of sight.

The flame aura builds, coming in from the northeast. My body shivers against its potent flow as it sweeps through my tangled affinity lines with dizzying heat. As if it’s trying to burn a path across the distance between us.

I gasp, disbelieving even in the face of it. Yvan, are you alive?

The conflagration intensifies, and I can sense explosive yearning in its power. My mind casts about. This aura swept in so fast after the scorpio attack—after Lukas pushed me through a portal to the Eastern Realm.

Sacrificing his life for mine.

My throat clenches with choking sorrow. I can barely breathe as I remember my last glimpse of Lukas, his green eyes locked with mine as his back was hit by Vogel’s dark fire.

The flame aura seems to sense my anguish, its flow intensifying around me to the point of vibration.

Sweet Ancient One.

I’m sure this is Yvan’s flame. I’ve been swept up in this flow of Wyvern power before, in his bonding kiss.

A wilderness of disorientation wrests hold, hot and raw, over the world-upending possibility of Yvan, alive, and Lukas, lost to me forever. Devastated tears glaze my eyes as I remember Yvan’s words—

A dragon’s kiss binds him to his mate. I’ll know when you’re in danger. I’ll sense any pain you experience.

The anguish intensifies. Could Yvan have somehow survived and be in hiding like me? On the run, my features grayed by an Elfhollen glamour...

A child’s scream cleaves through the Wyvernfire’s roar.

I startle, hard, and the fire rips away from my lines with such force that I’m pitched in the direction of its northeastern flow, my hands and knees slamming onto the ground. The purple landscape snaps back into view as the demon-sensing rune Sage marked on my abdomen begins to sting.

Pulse thundering, I register everything before me in one sweeping glance.

I’m in a field of swaying, violet grass, the smoking corpses of the three scorpios I just brought down splayed out to my sides, a purple forest beyond. A black-haired teenage girl with Mage features stands before me, her sickly, violet-hued, point-eared mother and young sister to her back. There’s a blade in the teenage girl’s hand, and their eyes are wide with horror as a swoosh sounds behind me, along with a rasping hiss.

I whip around. Four huge wraith bats, big as men, are soaring down into the clearing on leathery wings. Baring sickle-sharp fangs, they zoom toward me, the lead bat rapidly enlarging as it fills my vision, an incoming nightmare of teeth...

I roll to the side, dodging its attack, before springing up. A wing blow smacks my side and I’m hurled back to the ground, grunting from the collision, dry grass scraping my face as a visceral rush of fright streaks through me.

Lukas’s voice overtakes my mind. Suppress your fear! They feed on it!

Teeth gritted, I pull hard on my fire power like Lukas trained me to, incinerating my emotions. I roll upright just as a clawed grip digs into my waist and hoists my body skyward, the air punched from my lungs as I’m buckled into a V. The world below swings away and I kick and flail, scrabbling for my rune blades, panic rising as the other three wraith bats fan out their wings and take flight.

The teen girl runs toward me, her heart-shaped face a mask of feral determination as she hurls her weapon, an incoming silver streak.

Her knife finds its mark above me with a dull thwick.

The bat lets out a furious hiss and I’m suddenly released, a wall of lavender grass flying toward my face. I reflexively bend my limbs as I crash into the ground with bone-jarring force and roll into the fall over the rough grass.

The Wand of Myth tingles against my calf and I reach for it, heart thundering, its spiraling form still sheathed in the side of my boot.

I still have perfect aim.

A vicious warrior resolve taking hold, I spring to my feet and unsheathe the two runic blades at my sides, the powerful Ash’rion blade Valasca gave me in my wand hand. Eyes narrowing, I track the bat that seized me as it lands in a snarling, jerking mass, bucking and straining as it attempts to dislodge the knife. The other three touch down behind it, their black lizard-slit eyes set on me.

Lukas, Valasca, and Chi Nam’s training snaps into place and I take swift notice of the single Shadow rune marking the lower chest of each bat. They’re not deflection runes, I coldly note as another realization strikes home in one harsh blow...

I’m at full-on war with Marcus Vogel.

A war to control my own gods-damned power.

“You can’t have me,” I seethe as red-hot wrath ignites, fueled by the memory of Lukas’s patient hands on mine as he taught me how to use these very blades, sliding my fingers across their charged runes while murmuring the fire-amplification spell as I’m doing now.

The bats advance, their dark forms hunched, nostrils flaring as they hiss and spit and bare teeth. But I’m beyond fear now, a volcanic fury rising to singe it to ash.

“Screw your Magedom,” I growl at Vogel. I draw my arms back and the Wand’s guiding translucent green tracks, visible only to me, appear in the air, leading from my blades to the necks of the closest beasts—the injured bat and the one beside it.

With a harsh grunt, I hurl the knives.

The blades streak through the air and impale the two bats in their broad necks with dual snicks. The beasts’ cavernous mouths wrench open, releasing metallic shrieks into the air, before their heads and upper torsos explode into bright balls of golden flame, the Ash’rion blade’s explosion the most potent.

The other two bats launch themselves at me and I break into a dead run.

Wet snuffling noises sound behind me, and a clawed grip closes around my ankle, pitching me forward. I twist around, pressing my fingers to the weapon-retrieval runes Valasca marked on my palms, the marks hidden under my gray glamour.

My blades fly from the dead, flaming bats and hurtle to me in a blur, their hilts colliding with my palms with satisfying stings. I press my fingers to the fire runes, and stab one blade into the bat restraining me, then hurl the other at the eyes of the bat that’s closing in. Both creatures’ heads explode into fiery balls.

The heat rushes over me, the grip around my ankle loosening. I scuttle away, breathing hard, as the flaming bats flail and convulse, then lie still. Hoisting myself to my feet, I scan the lavender field and purple forest, every nerve on high alert. Heart thumping against my rib cage, I find no additional threats. Nothing but rustling leaves, a storm darkening sky, and the forest’s aura of hostility, thick as tar.

I raise my hands and my blades rip from the beasts and fly back into my palms, their hilts scalding against my fire-resistant skin. The Wand’s energy shivers against my calf as gratitude for its aid courses through me. Feeling as if liquid steel has entered my veins, I turn to face the teen girl, the Urisk woman, and the young child.

The teen’s eyes are combative as they meet mine, as if she’s still engaged in battle. Her mother has backed away to the forest’s edge, her little girl swept behind her. The child’s tear-streaked violet face peeks at me from around her mother’s side and the terror on her innocent face rouses a fierce sympathy in me.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

The child startles and ducks behind her mother, who is watching me through fever-dazed eyes, shock evident on her wan face. The young teen glances at them, then me, and nods stiffly.

Forcing my bruised body into motion, I resheathe my blades and stalk to one of the smoldering bats. Through the flames, I yank the girl’s knife from its tough hide. Then I turn and stride to her, ignoring the stabbing pain in my ankle. I hold the weapon out to her, hilt first.

She meets my gaze, vulnerability breaking through as she lets out a quavering breath, then nods, relief overtaking her expression as she accepts the blade.

The immensity of the situation is suddenly bearing down on me like deadweight. I’m outwardly calm, but my blood is hammering at my temples, dread unfolding in the pit of my stomach.

I’m on a collision course with Vogel and the Prophecy.

Lukas is gone. Chi Nam too. And Ancient One knows what happened to Valasca.

I rake my fingers through my tangled gray hair, a barrage of grief and longing for Lukas—for all of them—hitting me with eviscerating force. I’m splayed open by it, unmoored, my breaths coming in uneven, shuddering waves. How can I face this alone?

A heart-shattering memory of Lukas’s voice fills my mind. You’re stronger than you think. I’m sure of it. I always have been.

The will to fight back wrests hold, spearing up through the grief.

Fueled by it.

It surprises me, how intensely and tenaciously it grips hold. It’s what he would have wanted, I insist to myself, tightening my chest against the upswell of sorrow. It’s what they all would have wanted. They’d want me to stay sharp and persevere.

Steadied, I stride back toward the bats, their charred heads spitting flame and dark smoke. I pause over the nearest corpse and survey the unfamiliar Shadow rune on its chest, knowing that I’m looking at my enemy.

The enemy who killed Lukas.

“Watch for movement in the trees or sky,” I caution the teen over my shoulder. She nods and grips her blade tighter as I set my gaze back on the corrupted beast and lower myself to one knee before it.

Slim, almost elegant tendrils of Shadow are curling from the circular rune on its charred chest, a palpable tang of energy hovering in the air around it. Cautiously, I pass my hand through the smoke, and the tendrils flash silver as they prickle my skin with an unnatural shiver. The Wand of Myth’s subtle, comforting buzz against my calf cuts out.

Like it’s hiding.

Focus sharpening, I draw my hand through the tendrils, the unsettling shiver increasing, then press my palm down on the Shadow rune.

The shivering energy explodes outward, the purple world dimming. My fastlines appear from beneath my gray glamour, the dark, looping lines taking form on my hand and wrist. Alarm knifes through me as I move to wrench my hand back, only to find it fused to the rune.

A translucent image of Lukas appears, superimposed on the scene before me. He’s shirtless and breathing heavily, his muscular body bound to the stony ground by some kind of Shadow vines, his wand hand splayed out and vine-webbed to a cavern’s floor. Bloodred lash marks crisscross his chest, and there are bars made of Shadow behind him.

Every emotion in me surges up, hot and hard.

“Lukas!”

He meets my eyes, defiance rearing in his gaze’s green depths. “Go straight to hell, Marcus,” he snarls as a phantom hand clutching a dark gray wand is raised before me, seeming as if it’s my hand, my vision. The wand lowers and touches Lukas’s fastlines, and he groans, body stiffening in evident pain.

“Lukas!” I cry again, scrabbling to touch him, my hand passing straight through the phantom image. Energy prickles along the back of my neck, and I’ve the sudden, unnatural sense of an awareness provoked.

Lukas’s image whisks from sight, my focus hurtling back to the wraith bat corpse before me, the Shadow rune’s hold on my hand abruptly releasing.

My throat clenches. “No... Lukas...no.”

I frantically press both hands onto the rune, but its smoke has vanished, along with the mist that was emanating from the runes on the other bats, only their gray imprints remaining. I lift my hands, a light-headed rush streaking through me as I find that my fastlines are once more hidden beneath my glamour.

As if something cut a connection.

My heart pounds harder.

Lukas is alive. He’s alive.

Frantic, I struggle to find clarity. The not-fully-charged portal I went through must have had a sizable time lag, I realize, even though the journey seemed over in the blink of an eye.

My mind-bending concern intensifies. How long has Lukas been in Vogel’s grip? Why was I briefly able to see my fastlines?

And that Shadowfire of Vogel’s—how did Lukas survive it?

The answer hits me like a bolt to the heart.

The same way I survived it. Yvan’s Wyvernfire bond conferred me with immunity to being burned. And I fed that Wyvernfire straight into Lukas all those times that he kissed me and drew on my power.

Which means... I must have extended Yvan’s fire bond to Lukas, as well.

My mind spins. Sweet Ancient One. Yvan’s fire saved Lukas.

But...if Lukas is alive, where is he?

My spine tightens with a flame-streaked rise of revolt, my wand hand reflexively reaching for my Ash’rion blade.

I have to return to the West and save him.

“Ny’laea!”

I rake my fingers through my tangled gray hair, a barrage of grief and longing for Lukas—for all of them—hitting me with eviscerating force. I’m splayed open by it, unmoored, my breaths coming in uneven, shuddering waves. How can I face this alone?

A heart-shattering memory of Lukas’s voice fills my mind. You’re stronger than you think. I’m sure of it. I always have been.

The will to fight back wrests hold, spearing up through the grief.

Fueled by it.

It surprises me, how intensely and tenaciously it grips hold. It’s what he would have wanted, I insist to myself, tightening my chest against the upswell of sorrow. It’s what they all would have wanted. They’d want me to stay sharp and persevere.

Steadied, I stride back toward the bats, their charred heads spitting flame and dark smoke. I pause over the nearest corpse and survey the unfamiliar Shadow rune on its chest, knowing that I’m looking at my enemy.

The enemy who killed Lukas.

“Watch for movement in the trees or sky,” I caution the teen over my shoulder. She nods and grips her blade tighter as I set my gaze back on the corrupted beast and lower myself to one knee before it.

Slim, almost elegant tendrils of Shadow are curling from the circular rune on its charred chest, a palpable tang of energy hovering in the air around it. Cautiously, I pass my hand through the smoke, and the tendrils flash silver as they prickle my skin with an unnatural shiver. The Wand of Myth’s subtle, comforting buzz against my calf cuts out.

Like it’s hiding.

Focus sharpening, I draw my hand through the tendrils, the unsettling shiver increasing, then press my palm down on the Shadow rune.

The shivering energy explodes outward, the purple world dimming. My fastlines appear from beneath my gray glamour, the dark, looping lines taking form on my hand and wrist. Alarm knifes through me as I move to wrench my hand back, only to find it fused to the rune.

A translucent image of Lukas appears, superimposed on the scene before me. He’s shirtless and breathing heavily, his muscular body bound to the stony ground by some kind of Shadow vines, his wand hand splayed out and vine-webbed to a cavern’s floor. Bloodred lash marks crisscross his chest, and there are bars made of Shadow behind him.

Every emotion in me surges up, hot and hard.

“Lukas!”

He meets my eyes, defiance rearing in his gaze’s green depths. “Go straight to hell, Marcus,” he snarls as a phantom hand clutching a dark gray wand is raised before me, seeming as if it’s my hand, my vision. The wand lowers and touches Lukas’s fastlines, and he groans, body stiffening in evident pain.

“Lukas!” I cry again, scrabbling to touch him, my hand passing straight through the phantom image. Energy prickles along the back of my neck, and I’ve the sudden, unnatural sense of an awareness provoked.

Lukas’s image whisks from sight, my focus hurtling back to the wraith bat corpse before me, the Shadow rune’s hold on my hand abruptly releasing.

My throat clenches. “No... Lukas...no.”

I frantically press both hands onto the rune, but its smoke has vanished, along with the mist that was emanating from the runes on the other bats, only their gray imprints remaining. I lift my hands, a light-headed rush streaking through me as I find that my fastlines are once more hidden beneath my glamour.

As if something cut a connection.

My heart pounds harder.

Lukas is alive. He’s alive.

Frantic, I struggle to find clarity. The not-fully-charged portal I went through must have had a sizable time lag, I realize, even though the journey seemed over in the blink of an eye.

My mind-bending concern intensifies. How long has Lukas been in Vogel’s grip? Why was I briefly able to see my fastlines?

And that Shadowfire of Vogel’s—how did Lukas survive it?

The answer hits me like a bolt to the heart.

The same way I survived it. Yvan’s Wyvernfire bond conferred me with immunity to being burned. And I fed that Wyvernfire straight into Lukas all those times that he kissed me and drew on my power.

Which means... I must have extended Yvan’s fire bond to Lukas, as well.

My mind spins. Sweet Ancient One. Yvan’s fire saved Lukas.

But...if Lukas is alive, where is he?

My spine tightens with a flame-streaked rise of revolt, my wand hand reflexively reaching for my Ash’rion blade.

I have to return to the West and save him.

“Ny’laea!”

I rake my fingers through my tangled gray hair, a barrage of grief and longing for Lukas—for all of them—hitting me with eviscerating force. I’m splayed open by it, unmoored, my breaths coming in uneven, shuddering waves. How can I face this alone?

A heart-shattering memory of Lukas’s voice fills my mind. You’re stronger than you think. I’m sure of it. I always have been.

The will to fight back wrests hold, spearing up through the grief.

Fueled by it.

It surprises me, how intensely and tenaciously it grips hold. It’s what he would have wanted, I insist to myself, tightening my chest against the upswell of sorrow. It’s what they all would have wanted. They’d want me to stay sharp and persevere.

Steadied, I stride back toward the bats, their charred heads spitting flame and dark smoke. I pause over the nearest corpse and survey the unfamiliar Shadow rune on its chest, knowing that I’m looking at my enemy.

The enemy who killed Lukas.

“Watch for movement in the trees or sky,” I caution the teen over my shoulder. She nods and grips her blade tighter as I set my gaze back on the corrupted beast and lower myself to one knee before it.

Slim, almost elegant tendrils of Shadow are curling from the circular rune on its charred chest, a palpable tang of energy hovering in the air around it. Cautiously, I pass my hand through the smoke, and the tendrils flash silver as they prickle my skin with an unnatural shiver. The Wand of Myth’s subtle, comforting buzz against my calf cuts out.

Like it’s hiding.

Focus sharpening, I draw my hand through the tendrils, the unsettling shiver increasing, then press my palm down on the Shadow rune.

The shivering energy explodes outward, the purple world dimming. My fastlines appear from beneath my gray glamour, the dark, looping lines taking form on my hand and wrist. Alarm knifes through me as I move to wrench my hand back, only to find it fused to the rune.

A translucent image of Lukas appears, superimposed on the scene before me. He’s shirtless and breathing heavily, his muscular body bound to the stony ground by some kind of Shadow vines, his wand hand splayed out and vine-webbed to a cavern’s floor. Bloodred lash marks crisscross his chest, and there are bars made of Shadow behind him.

Every emotion in me surges up, hot and hard.

“Lukas!”

He meets my eyes, defiance rearing in his gaze’s green depths. “Go straight to hell, Marcus,” he snarls as a phantom hand clutching a dark gray wand is raised before me, seeming as if it’s my hand, my vision. The wand lowers and touches Lukas’s fastlines, and he groans, body stiffening in evident pain.

“Lukas!” I cry again, scrabbling to touch him, my hand passing straight through the phantom image. Energy prickles along the back of my neck, and I’ve the sudden, unnatural sense of an awareness provoked.

Lukas’s image whisks from sight, my focus hurtling back to the wraith bat corpse before me, the Shadow rune’s hold on my hand abruptly releasing.

My throat clenches. “No... Lukas...no.”

I frantically press both hands onto the rune, but its smoke has vanished, along with the mist that was emanating from the runes on the other bats, only their gray imprints remaining. I lift my hands, a light-headed rush streaking through me as I find that my fastlines are once more hidden beneath my glamour.

As if something cut a connection.

My heart pounds harder.

Lukas is alive. He’s alive.

Frantic, I struggle to find clarity. The not-fully-charged portal I went through must have had a sizable time lag, I realize, even though the journey seemed over in the blink of an eye.

My mind-bending concern intensifies. How long has Lukas been in Vogel’s grip? Why was I briefly able to see my fastlines?

And that Shadowfire of Vogel’s—how did Lukas survive it?

The answer hits me like a bolt to the heart.

The same way I survived it. Yvan’s Wyvernfire bond conferred me with immunity to being burned. And I fed that Wyvernfire straight into Lukas all those times that he kissed me and drew on my power.

Which means... I must have extended Yvan’s fire bond to Lukas, as well.

My mind spins. Sweet Ancient One. Yvan’s fire saved Lukas.

But...if Lukas is alive, where is he?

My spine tightens with a flame-streaked rise of revolt, my wand hand reflexively reaching for my Ash’rion blade.

I have to return to the West and save him.

“The teen’s voice cuts through my rebellious thrall. I turn, her repeated calls of my false Elfhollen name finally registering.

“What’s the date?” I demand.

She eyes me with obvious confusion. “The third week of Seventh Month, I think. I’ve... I’ve lost track of the exact days.”

My mind casts about. Over a week. Lukas has been in Vogel’s grip for over a week...

“Who were you screaming for?” she throws down, meeting me demand for demand.

I give her a level look. “Someone I need to save.” Rain begins to drizzle as I rise, my gaze sweeping over the trees like I’m sighting a nocked arrow, thoughts igniting.

I need to unbind my power, and fast, so I can go after Lukas. Which means I need the help of people adept at complicated magic.

I need to get to the Wyvernguard.

It’s where Lukas, Chi Nam, and Valasca were planning to bring me. It boasts some of the most powerful sorceresses and sorcerers in all the Realms including portal sorceresses—and if I’m going to return to the desert as quickly as possible, I’ll need a portal.

And even though Chi Nam is no longer with me, I have allies there.

Trystan. I need to find my brother.

I take a quavering breath and hope against hope that my youngest brother made it to the Wyvernguard when he fled east with our older brother Rafe and other loved ones. Tierney, Sage...they were bent on joining the Wyvernguard, as well.

I glance toward the hostile forest, the immensity of the journey ahead swamping me as I visualize the map in Chi Nam’s Vonor. The Vo Mountains present a formidable barrier, even without their killing storm band. And before the mountains lies the treacherous Zonor River...

“Ny’laea, what happened?” the teenager demands, green eyes blazing hotter, as if she’s finally summoned enough courage to force answers from me. She points emphatically at the bats. “What are those runes?”

I meet her rattled gaze as the rain needles down. “Corrupted Mage runes,” I answer, conflicted over drawing her and her family into my doomed orbit. I glance at her sickly mother and small sister. The little girl lets out a rattling cough and the incredible realization circles down—their situation is so dire that traveling with the Black Witch, hunted by a multitude of powerful forces, is likely their best shot at survival.

“I need to get to the Wyvernguard,” I tell the teen.

“Why?” she asks, her heart-shaped face tensing.

Lightning forks across the sky and thunder cracks overhead.

Because I’m the Black Witch, I almost respond in fearsome challenge. And I want to subvert the Prophecy as spectacularly as possible.

“My brother is in the Wyvernguard,” I say instead. “He can help us.” I motion toward the blade in her hand, gratitude welling. “You saved my life.”

“You saved ours,” she rejoins, as if that settles the matter.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

She hesitates, her stance becoming confrontational. “Nym’ellia,” she answers, and I immediately guess why this fierce girl feels the need to throw her name out like a challenge. Such a distinctly Urisk name. Bestowed on a girl who has the black hair, shimmering green skin and forest green eyes of a Gardnerian. Who looks completely like a Mage.

I’m unable to keep from noticing the ears that poke through Nym’ellia’s stringy, unwashed hair. Jagged scars run atop edges that were obviously once pointed but were likely cropped in the West. Cruelly cut off by a mob like the one that attacked Olilly. I glance at Nym’ellia’s fever-stricken mother and sister, lifting my brow in question.

Some of the girl’s belligerent air draws down. “My mother’s name is Emberlyyn,” she offers with a worried frown, seeming to sense my line of inquiry, “and my sister is Tibryl.” She eyes me levelly. “They have the Red Grippe.”

“I know,” I say. “I had it when I was a child.” I spare another glance at Emberlyyn, who is slumped against one of the enormous purple trees, loosely embracing her child. Both are flushed with fever, spots of the Red Grippe illness cruelly fixed around their mouths.

They need Norfure tincture, and soon.

I turn back to Nym’ellia. “Your course is set for Voloi?”

She nods and draws her gold compass from her tunic’s pocket. “We’re less than a league from the Zonor River.” She reads the compass, then jabs her finger toward a line of forest ahead. “That way.”

East.

I sheathe my weapons and inhale. “Well, then, let’s go.” I give her a pointed look, drawing courage from the feel of warm, tingling energy rising once more from the Wand sheathed at my calf. “Let’s get to Noilaan,” I say. “We’ll find my brother and get your mother and sister some medicine.”

And pray that, over the past weeks, the Mage grandson of the Black Witch has been fully accepted and integrated into Noilaan’s Wyvernguard.Vothendrile

“I hope they blast the Crow to pieces,” rune sorceress Heelyn hisses from beside me as we observe the military exercise with a cluster of sapphire-uniformed soldier-apprentices. We’re assembled on the obsidian river-level terrace, standing near the massive bas-relief marble dragon sculpture that wraps around the entire base of the Wyvernguard’s North Island, a cool breeze gusting in from the expansive Vo River.

Heelyn’s words kick up a tumultuous current through my water and wind auras as I watch Trystan Gardner assume an offensive position, his wand raised toward the six Vu Trin soldiers taking battle stances before him, his green-glimmering face a mask of determination. The black-clad sorceresses murmur a shielding spell in unison, swords and blades drawn, their gazes pinned on the Gardnerian.

The wind intensifies. I breathe in its coolness, joining it to my internal weather-based power in an attempt to smooth out my increasingly unsettled emotions over this grandson of the Black Witch I’ve been charged to guard. By Wyvernguard Commander Ung Li herself.

Her rationale remains unspoken, but I know I’ve been handpicked as the soldier-apprentice guard most likely to drive the reviled Mage out.

Sunlight glints off the soldiers’ raised rune swords, blades, and stars, the sorceresses ready to deflect Trystan’s formidable Level Five magic and strike him down. A magical shield the sorceresses have thrown up adheres to their focused forms, blanketing them in an iridescent sapphire glimmer.

I glance at Heelyn, my friend since childhood and one of Noilaan’s most powerful runic sorceresses. Her close-cropped black hair shines in the bright sunlight, the image of a dragon shaved into the side of it, her muscular body tense with loathing. She looks at me expectantly, obviously waiting for my affirmation of her blistering hatred of the Mage—an affirmation I would have supplied all too readily only weeks ago.

Inexplicably vexed, I turn away from Heelyn, my gaze drawn back to Trystan. The familiar storm of conflict rises.

He’s truly on our side.

It’s been clear from the first night he arrived, even as I fought to deny it, my Wyvern senses and power-empath abilities forcing me to confront the outrageously unexpected.

I struggle to beat back my doubts. The controversy surrounding the Gardnerian’s inclusion here is explosive. How could it not be? I fought against it as well—a Crow wanting to fight for the Eastern Realm, the grandson of the Black Witch no less.

How could that be right on any level?

Impossible to accept, just as it’s impossible to accept the scattering of other Mages here, the majority of the Wyvernguard wondering if High Commander Vang Troi’s formidable powers of reason have come unstrung.

My thoughts fly back to before I met Trystan, when I spearheaded a petition to keep him out. Thousands of soldiers and apprentices signed it. And when Vang Troi refused to budge, I organized a protest that both I and my circle of friends were harshly disciplined for. Even though we had the full support of the majority of the Noi Conclave and my people’s Zhilon’ile Conclave, including my entire family, as well as Commander Ung Li.

But here Trystan Gardner is, and increasingly, it cannot be denied...

He’s on our side.

I can smell it on him—his fearless desire to fight with the East. And his honesty surrounding all of it.

His cursed honesty.

I’ve struggled to scent a lie on him, just a hint of one. Sought to detect that slight sheen of sweat that almost always accompanies untruths, to hear it in the near imperceptible increase in heartbeat. But...nothing.

My uneasy awareness has persisted throughout the past weeks as I trailed him everywhere. To weapons training, wand sparring, rune-ship navigation, meals. Never once have I sensed a lie on him, even though I searched with an intensity bordering on obsession. To justify the way he’s being treated here.

The way I’m treating him.

Unease twists my gut, my jaw ticking with tension as I watch Trystan’s green eyes go hard, watch him murmuring Roach spells to fill his wand with lethal Mage power. The same power that killed so many Noi’khin.

My family is right, I silently rage. None of the Crows should be here. Not a one.

Yes, some of the completely justifiable protests have devolved into abuse, but how could High Commander Vang Troi honestly believe Trystan could ever assimilate here, or anywhere in the East?

Still, my unease is like a ceaseless, growing tide.

Every day I’ve watched Trystan Gardner descend into a protective silence, and it’s begun to prick at my conscience. To add to the confusion, he’s increasingly shadowed by the equally silent Death Fae, who seem hells-bent on drawing him into their outcast circle.

“Vu Trin, ready your magic,” Commander Ung Li calls from the sidelines, her spiked black hair gleaming in the sun, arms crossed in front of her.

Trystan focuses on the soldiers facing him, his eyes narrowing as he raises his wand a fraction higher. An invisible charge sizzles to life around him and spills into my power. Stinging threads of lightning flare over my skin.

“Fire!” Ung Li orders.

Trystan lashes his wand forward.

A blast of storming water shot through with vivid blue lightning bursts from his wand, and the incredible aura of oceanic energy coursing from it hits me like a typhoon.

The water collides with the sorceresses and throws the weapons from their hands as they’re driven back, feet skidding across the terrace to its farthest railing, their weapons’ runes troublingly