Saya whimpered. A terrible hurt throbbed in her core, so deep it left her unable to think, unable to see. She gasped, drawing a breath, and memory flooded back in a cold deluge.

  The Brethren were here for the Prism.

  She couldn’t fight them alone. She’d tried. Oh how she’d tried. Yet she was the only Seradin left. The others had been buried under Encryst by her own hand.

  Saya pushed herself up—tried to move. Cold, hard hands pushed her back down.

  “You’re ok. You’re ok,” an unfamiliar voice said. The words were spoken in the Valor tongue. Relief flickered through her at hearing it, though it would have been even better if they’d spoken in her native Serad.

  Cool, gentle Energía flowed into her, imbuing her with vitality. It carried the local signature—Valoría, they called it.

  Saya tried to blink, but her vision remained blank. Why can’t I see?

  “What… are you doing to me?” she mumbled, feebly pushing at the arms holding her down. She desperately tried to Focus—and discovered a source of ample Potentía nearby. She pulled it in and expanded a sensory field.

  The ship, that’s right. She was in the ship. She remembered dragging herself this far, remembered the med-bay—then pain and darkness.

  There were two others with her now: a young man, and a middle-aged woman. The woman was nothing special, a lower tier local Adept.

  But the boy—

  Saya’s struggle stilled. She couldn’t read him properly. His signature was a fluctuating blend, layered and unstable in a way that made it impossible to divine his true strength.

  Then a disembodied voice slid into her mind.

  “Is your name… Saya? I am Ember.”

  That intrusion was so unexpected Saya released her field. Her breath caught. She realized it was the Prism she’d sensed nearby, but why was there a voice in her head?

  ----

  Zoesia limped along the forest floor, dragging herself from tree to tree. She was exhausted, bloodied and bruised. Pain flared with every step. But the physical hurt was nothing next to her humiliation.

  To be trapped here, in this hub realm… by a child. It was baffling. A twisted joke.

  She snarled, his face emblazoned in her mind. She hoped he’d bled out where she’d left him. Something told her that was unlikely.

  Her ankle snagged on a root, and Zoesia dropped to one knee. Air sawed in and out of her chest with every breath. She needed rest. Yet every time she slowed, she felt exposed. Hunted.

  The crystlings had been dogged in their pursuit. Days on the run had worn her down and made her wary of stopping for even a moment. Zoesia reached inward and felt at her reserves—dangerously low. She could Shift a couple of more times… probably. But she’d have to be deliberate.

  Shifting was instantaneous, yes. But it wasn’t stealthy. It thundered her presence for anyone to hear. Usually, she enjoyed that. The sound alone struck fear into her prey.

  But now she was the prey.

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  Zoesia pounded a bloodied fist against the bark of a nearby tree. If she survived this, there was no telling how much stature she would lose amongst her peers. Her rivals.

  A scent tugged at her senses—smoke, and something roasting. Her mouth watered as the crackling flames drew her onward.

  She expected a cluster of locals around a modest fire. Instead she found a single woman with fiery-colored hair sitting on a fallen log, turning meat over the flames. The woman looked up—eyes narrowing—and observed Zoesia like she was deciding whether or not to roast her too.

  “Who the Rift are you?” the woman asked, the air around her shimmering faintly with heat.

  Another Valorian then. Zoesia hated their stupid language. She deliberated her next steps. She could probably kill the woman. But something made her hesitate. There was an edge to her, something dangerous. And looking her over… Zoesia concluded she was on the run too. She resigned herself, and contorted her mouth to speak the necessary sounds.

  “I am Zoesia. You hide too, yes?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed, and she ripped a strip of meat free with her teeth and started chewing.

  “What’s it to you?”

  Zoesia found herself smiling.

  “We help each other? Escape?”

  The woman snorted. Then seemed to mull it over. “I know what you are.”

  Zoesia held her breath, waiting for the woman to continue, “But rift me if I couldn’t use the help. Name’s Kiya.”

  A ball of flame lit above Kiya’s upraised hand. “Cross me, and I’ll kill you.”

  ----

  Destry strode across the ruined street alone. He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves as he went, careful to keep a watchful eye on his surroundings. Most cryst-beasts knew better than to test him, but some specimens were remarkably dull.

  The past several days had been trying, to say the least. He didn’t have time for this, but when Settas called…

  The entrance to the tower ahead yawned open, its interior lobby shrouded in darkness. The doors had been wrenched free well over a century ago, and yet the space beyond sat undisturbed. This far into the Deep Ruins, a hollow like this should have been a den or nest for something.

  In a way, Destry supposed, it still served that purpose.

  His heels clicked on tile as he crossed the foyer. He paused in the center and waited. The old man didn’t keep him waiting long.

  “Why do you dress yourself like that?” a gravelly voice asked abruptly at his left shoulder.

  Destry barely stopped himself from jumping out of his skin. Since childhood, he’d wondered how Old Set did that. There was never any tell—no footsteps, no breathing. Just a sudden presence when you least expected it.

  “Are the theatrics really necessary?” Destry asked, ignoring the barb about his clothing. What was wrong with wanting to look sharp? Put together? “Surely you could have just included this in the message you sent, rather than dragging me all the way out here.”

  A presence bore down on Destry’s mind. Dark pressure. He tried to bear it, to endure without showing weakness, but was eventually forced to lean away from his uncle lest he drop to his knees.

  “My brother raised you poorly,” Settas murmured. “Where is the respect? The deference?” His voice hardened. “You are of the Brethren, boy. Don’t forget yourself.”

  Destry tugged at his collar and wiped sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. He would have nothing to do with the Brethren if he’d had a choice. But when you were born into something… it was hard to escape its shadows.

  “I… apologize,” Destry said, forcing the words out. “You’re right, of course.” He turned and bowed his head a fraction.

  Set cackled, then smacked Destry on the back. The old man looked frail, yet the blow still staggered him forward.

  “Things are progressing, finally,” Settas said. “The boy has embraced his path. He has the Prism—and Saya now. It won’t take much to push them in the right direction.”

  Destry struggled to keep a sneer from his face. The boy. That stupid boy. Everything had been in hand until that woman had shown up at the Archives with the Guardians. How had she even known they were there? Regardless—Destry had barely escaped, and months of effort had been wasted.

  Settas smiled, as if reading Destry’s thoughts. The old man knew of his ambitions—his desire for knowledge—yet he withheld things on purpose. Strung Destry along on the barest scraps of insight. The Archives had been Destry’s chance to find answers for himself.

  Now he was back to begging his uncle for crumbs.

  “So what do you need from me?” Destry asked at last, knowing Settas was waiting on him to.

  “I need you to stir the pot,” Settas said. “Get everyone’s eyes fixed on the Deep Ruins. It’s much easier to move undetected when the Mark is distracted by something else.”

  Destry nodded, wary.

  Settas smiled.

  As always, it made Destry’s skin crawl.

  Destry grunted. “And how am I supposed to do that?”

  Settas scowled. “Where’s your imagination? Your initiative? Bah.”

  Destry’s eyes narrowed.

  “Surprise me,” Settas said. “Surprise everyone. It shouldn’t be hard.” His voice dropped, turning sharp. “The Shadow has found a way to break through. There are Nodes in the Deep now. Make use of that—if you can.”

  He leaned closer, the pressure in the air tightening like a hand around Destry’s throat.

  “Just make sure we come out on top,” Settas murmured. “And be ready… for when the time comes to wake the others.”