Risens emerged from the windStep into a small room walled in by rough-cut boards. During the day, the defined lances of light would have stabbed through the gaps, though at the present, only the dull glow of the sluggishly brightening sky illuminated the chamber. Dawn was rapidly approaching. Thus, his task would become more challenging before long.

  The small room where his portal led was little more than an unused closet in an abandoned multi-story building directly across the street from the massive library complex. For as long as he had known, the top two floors—the one he had entered and the one below—had remained vacant. Agents of the crown had owned the space for years, though he’d never seen any business conducted out of its office. Nevertheless, it remained well maintained, furnished, though devoid of occupants.

  With that being said, he rarely found himself out in the city during what one would consider regular working hours.

  Beyond the concealed portal, there was nothing of note on the upper floor. The one below, however, served as a catchall for whatever odds and ends had been in the building at the time it was acquired—though more likely, its purpose was to be a buffer between the inhabitable space and whatever used to occur on the top floor.

  Thankfully, this also meant there were relatively few places for someone to hide—were they to set an ambush for his arrival. Even in the dark, he could see clearly into every shadowed corner. Surprisingly, the increasingly bright symbols that flashed in his eyes didn’t interfere with his vision as he stalked through the darkness. Reaching the narrow staircase that led to the roof, the now recognizable final symbol flashed into view before the countdown faded in its entirety.

  He breathed a sigh of relief—one he’d held throughout his duration in the castle. The time spent without the concealment of the mask, the Shadows Shroud, was short. If he couldn’t find a way to extend it, he would need to find a believable excuse, one plausible enough that the King would spare his life. Presently, he could think of none.

  The building’s rooftop was as plain as the floor he had entered from. Relatively flat, it angled only slightly away from the more commonly used street between it and the library, forcing a runoff when it rained into the alley beyond. Seldom as that might be. Windwake had been in the midst of a years-long drought. Rumors were whispered through the streets that it was the King’s fault. That he had forsaken the gods and cast the city into this cursed season.

  Risens, on the other hand, did not believe in such superstitions. At least he hadn’t until that voice…

  Dawn was yet to break over the city. Night was rapidly losing its perpetual battle to stave off the coming of day. A brightening hue of violet pulled up from the east, silhouetting the angular shapes of the buildings against the sky.

  At four stories, he stood one level higher than most other structures, providing him with an excellent vantage point to view the surrounding city with less fear of discovery. In his current case, it would grant him undetectable access to the library beyond.

  Unlike the unplanned flight from the precipice of the treasonous Duke’s home, this was a leap he’d made with regularity over the years. The lush lawns of the conveniently placed rooftop garden of Adalhard’s Bank of Tomes were handmade for a cushioned landing strip to some of his earliest forays into crossing the city via her roofs.

  Curiously enough, the reckless act of throwing himself between buildings had never bothered him. The weightlessness as he soared through the air, though momentary, was exhilarating. For precious few seconds, he felt as if he were one of the city’s majestic ravens, soaring through the clouds. The ground was always keen to remind him where he belonged.

  The waning hours of this evening were no different than the dozens of times he’d previously made the jump. After a tragically brief flight, he touched down, rolling to a gentle stop on the thick carpet of grass.

  The upper balcony of the great library was shielded from view from the rest of the structure by the rounded edge of a glass dome that rose up from its middle. There were no windows along the lowest edges, the transparent panes set high atop the feature where it curved to a sharp point. The engineering wonder produced a glow that illuminated much of the interior at all points during the day.

  Where he was bound would receive no benefit from its illumination.

  Brushing the stray grass off his pants, Risens headed for the door set into the convex wall. Several long square tables and benches framed a paved stone walkway to the entrance. In contrast, other cushioned benches were stationed strategically amongst the gardens that bordered the edge of the roof.

  The rooftop door to the library was never locked, and tonight proved no different. Apparently, the custodian—who, as it seemed, was serving an eternal sentence at the structure—never saw the need to protect the upper entrance from anyone foolish enough to risk death to gain egress. As far as Risens knew, the aged caretaker was the very same who’d tended the grounds during his first experience with the space.

  Risens had been trained in the castle in a great many things. Along with those of a more martial nature, he’d been given to the best minds Windwake had to offer. Taught numbers and letters, he had always enjoyed the freedom of reading beyond the educational value. As he grew into his station as Rightmaker, his time had become increasingly limited. Still, he knew most of the library well, having foraged there for wisdom incessantly in his youth. He’d especially enjoyed the less savory tomes, hunting well after dark, when the eyes of those tasked with working the shelves were weary with sleep. He expected he knew the placement of most books better than many of the librarians.

  At the present, he was in no position to sightsee. His quarry was located on the lowest floor of the building. He moved silently and carefully along the upper floor to a wide stairwell that wrapped around the center of the room. At this hour, he had no expectation of anyone studying at the many tables, but he scanned each level before continuing to the next. Adalhard’s Bank of Tomes, like its namesake, was larger than life. While the castle housed a vast written history of Halthome, the entirety of it could fit comfortably into one of its wings. The castle was second to Adalhard’s itself in terms of size.

  Risens’ pace slowed as he approached the bottom floor. The object he sought—the copy of the Raven’s Guide—occupied a small room at the back of the first floor. It was secured in a case, hiding behind a thick pane of unbreakable glass. Shelves on either side displayed the editions accessible to any with the desire to study the Brands. Rumor held that a certain librarian, for the right price, would open the book to any Brand, though he never had the need to indulge in the illicit service.

  It was said that the monks, tucked away at the top of the not-far-off Drildair’s Peak, had spent years carefully transcribing each word with meticulous care. If even a single stroke of their quill went astray, they would tear up the page and begin anew.

  Adalhard’s Bank of Tomes advertised the only copy of the full Raven’s Guide, though Risens knew the fallacy of their words. Hidden in the subterranean vaults below the first floor were several others. It was those he sought.

  The sound that whispered through the shelves of the first floor brought a bemused smile to his face. He’d only ever seen a solitary sentry patrolling the dusty racks of tomes, and it seemed tonight, the elder caretaker was currently guarding his dreams, judging by the deep, staggered rattle of his snoring. Remaining in the shadows, Risens silently crossed the floor, ducking as he passed behind the low desk where the slumbering man reclined, his feet propped up. He had no need to worry about pilfering the keyring dangling temptingly from a bronze loop on the man’s belt. Few locks in all of Windwake gave him trouble. This was not one of them.

  The door he sought was tucked in the back of the small workroom behind where the caretaker lounged. With no windows, not even the light of the dome carried into this internal room. The depth of the darkness was welcoming to one with Risens’ proclivities toward shadow. The positioning of the tables and benches had changed since his last visit, yet he navigated them with relative ease.

  Reaching the doorway at the back of the room, Risens quickly picked the lock. He cursed softly, pausing momentarily as the click of the pin disengaging thundered through the otherwise silent room. He waited as the echo stilled, overtaken again by the snorts of the sleeping man.

  Though the lock complained about his operation, the door swung open, noiselessly granting him access to the stairwell leading into the basement. A dim, cool blue light illuminated his steps, shining from a glass lantern affixed to the wall. A mageLight was an appropriate choice to brighten a space filled with parchment. Few forces or elements could shatter the glass, and the small, blue, eternal flame would flicker out as soon as it made contact with the air.

  At the base of the stairs, the vault extended into darkness in all directions, though scattered blue flames bathed several portions. He had neither the time nor the desire to peruse the thousands of manuscripts housed carefully in the protection here, as it was a specific one he sought.

  Snaking through the racks, he found the section he desired. One copy of the Raven’s Guide lay open atop the table. He grinned at the irony of the page currently displayed. The Brand of the Watcher’s Eye. The marking was simple: a single, wide-open eyeball followed his approach. Designed for those who serve in the capacity of sentries and guardians, when applied, it can alert the bearer to the general position of any skulking in the shadows around them.

  From experience, he knew its gift to be easily avoided. It lacked precision and was at the whim of the bearer’s level of complacency. He could still hear traces of the caretaker’s heavy snoring above. If he was Branded with the Watcher’s Eye, the alert was far too mild to interrupt someone in his state of slumber.

  In the cabinets beneath the table, Risens saw it. While widely known that Adalhard’s Bank of Tomes contained an ancient copy of the Raven’s Guide, there were, in fact, several more secreted away here within the vault. Risens scanned the arrangement of large leather-bound tomes, stopping at one on the lowest shelf. While the copy on display here and the original in the castle were large, this one was smaller—pocket-sized with minuscule writing. While containing the same wealth of information, the significantly reduced profile was easily secreted away within the folds of his cloak. The monks had thought of everything, including the unexpected need for swift evacuation from the city, without risking the loss of such an important document.

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  He inspected the narrow binding, noting for the first time the peculiar tingle of energy that rippled through his hand upon its touch. The book, though ancient, had the appearance of being freshly pressed; the Brand of the Raven seared into its cover still gave off the sweet, lingering aroma of charred leather. The ink on the pages appeared as if it had been freshly applied. That there was a layer of magical protection over the tome, he was certain.

  Tucking the compact book into the concealed pocket in the folds of his robe. He was halfway across the floor when the sudden change in the atmosphere captured his attention. The dramatic surge of energy in the air caused the hair on his arms to stand on end, shifting him into a heightened focus. He fell to his knees and rolled to cover beneath the nearest table as a shifting glow of light preceded the steady footsteps on the stairs. A few beats later, the caretaker emerged from the stairwell. In one hand, he carried a mageLight, stretched out before him, its agitated flame now burning orange with alarm. A sword was in the other, though he held it awkwardly as if it were foreign to him.

  “Who’s there?” he demanded into the darkness of the vault.

  Risens silently cursed himself for his carelessness. The elder caretaker didn’t deserve to die for his stupidity. Thankfully, his repertoire of methods for rendering someone unconscious was versatile.

  “Out with you, now,” the man demanded when only silence returned his call.

  His terse command was immediately answered by the other lanterns scattered around the room. In perfect unison, the blue, low-burning flames flared, flooding the room with vivid orange light.

  The brightness was an inconvenience, though it was not his newest concern. From each corner of the room, a quiet whistle—like something moving through the air at devastating speed—filled the air.

  He groaned, guessing correctly at the source of the sudden noise.

  Sentinels.

  His hands shifted to his blades as he watched what looked like a small wooden crate lift off the ground, then hover a meter above the stone pavers. The scraps of wood that disguised the mechanical core within were shed as a pair of thin tubular appendages punched through the sides of two of them, one serpentine limb ending in a forked claw, the other flattening into a deadly sharp blade. A crude rectangular head breached the top of each. A pair of dimly lit holes served as the eyes, while a thin metallic slit made up its mouth.

  A third sentinel shifted erratically as the force of breaking through the crate proved too strong. Crashing into a table to its side, it flipped over. The force of its rear fan—which could quickly rotate to turn the manmade creature in any direction—slammed it to the ground with a loud crash. It sparked noisily, grinding across the floor for a few meters before falling silent and still. The others let out a sharp metallic screech and a quick puff of smoke before likewise falling to the ground. Then, with what felt like their second wind, the two rose again in sputtering starts.

  Risens had encountered few of the mechanisms over the years, though it had been several since his last. They were exceedingly rare, built by gnomish hands but powered by a magical skill that had fallen out of favor, lost to the annals of time. Judging by the condition of the rusted metal that formed their shells, they were, no doubt, ancient relics of a forgotten past, yet still operational. Sort of.

  The magic required to operate the sentinels was not without limit and reportedly proportional to their size and task. The cost to the gnomes for their creation was rumored to be drastic, and so without buyers, they soon stopped production. There was no sentient quality to the machines, each functioning for a sole purpose—generally defensive in nature. They would ask no questions and swiftly put down whomever stood in their way without remorse or pause.

  The caretaker, emboldened by the activity of his defenders, continued down the stairs, though he paused when he reached the bottom step.

  “Show yourself and I will call them off,” he bellowed. “It is the only way you will leave this room alive.”

  The threat, bolstered by the presence of the sentinels, did nothing more than serve to aggravate Risens. The undeniable fight—to defy the death that was promised—nearly propelled him to his feet. Better sense prevailed.

  He ducked his head lower as the pair of mechanisms began their methodical search. There was no clear route to the stairs. With the mask now serving as an easily identifiable feature, were he to rush to escape, the life of the caretaker would be forfeit. He could not allow the same mistake from earlier in the night to persist.

  The King’s mercy was finite and in his present situation, expired.

  He focused on hiding the Shadows Shroud, questioning whether desperation or need would spur its response. The disquiet that flooded his mind confirmed that which he expected. It was far too soon to remove the mask again.

  Thinking quickly, Risens searched for anything to aid his cause. In the shadows of the table that disguised his presence, there was nothing more than a few scraps of paper and a worn leather book binding. With little option, he closed the book before tossing it low into the aisle away from the stairs.

  The rough sound of the leather sliding across the dusty stone spurred an immediate response from the sentinels. With a menacing hiss—not unlike the sound of a kettle releasing steam—they tucked their spindly arms, whirling rapidly as they expelled a cloud of mist from slits in their heads.

  Risens panicked as the fog quickly filled the room. Without hesitation, he balled up the fabric of his cloak, took a deep breath, and pressed it against his face. At the base of the stairs, the caretaker’s eyes rolled back into his head. The mageLight and sword clanged in tandem against the stone as his body crumpled to the ground.

  With the only impediment to his secrecy removed, there was no further need for his stealth. Speed would be his ally now. Since the sentinels were generally tasked with protecting their charges, he doubted whatever poison was used would be lethal. But unconscious as he was, the caretaker would be unlikely to survive. Keeping his breath held and his mouth clamped shut, Risens surged to his feet, striking the most direct path to the stairs. His only hope was that his speed would be enough to avoid the violent rotation of the mechanisms.

  Leaping between the first two tables, his fool’s paradise was proven tragically wrong.

  His chest burned. Despite his efforts to seal the poisoned air from infiltrating his lungs, he’d filled them with that very poison. Dizziness hit him nearly as hard as the sudden force of a sentinel’s arm across his chest. It took him careening off tangent and kilter. Instead of his nimble stride, hopping from table to table, his shoulder crashed into the sturdy legs of one of the multiple workbenches. The heavy station buckled as it shifted erratically, showering him with scraps of wood and debris that littered its surface. The breath he was so desperately holding released in a feeble gasp as he gulped in the air to replenish his lungs.

  Panic mounted as he tasted the sour smell of the debilitating poison on his tongue. He tried in defiance to close off his lungs to the toxic air, yet every attempt only forced him to gasp more deeply. For an instant, his eyes drooped as an unnatural wave of drowsiness soaked through him. However, with each successive breath, he felt the increasing waves of pain from the impact. Likely, at least one rib was broken, yet, oddly, his consciousness remained.

  Puzzling over the lack of effects of the poison wasn’t a thought he had time for as he rolled to his side. The table, damaged from his impact, exploded into a spray of shrapnel when the sharpened arm of a sentinel punched through the wood. Reaching his feet, he had barely enough time to leap backward, reverse-somersaulting over the desk behind him as the other mechanism attacked in order. The other arm, forked to grasp, swatted at the contents of the table. He covered his face against the onslaught.

  Within the first few moves, it was clear the battle would be purely a defensive engagement. Dodging blow after blow from the sentinels that attacked in tandem, they barely spared him the time to draw his blades. A heavy metal arm swung around. The force of its unyielding steel sent him stumbling backward, waves of pain radiating through his torso.

  The orderly workbenches of the vault were quickly becoming less than a pile of kindling, scraps of leather, and shredded parchment. With every strike he parried, every splinter of wood that peppered his body, he regretted the decision to seek the Raven’s Guide. He cursed whoever took the manuscript from the castle’s library before he could borrow it.

  Though he knew the mindless machines had no sentient abilities, no complex reasoning, every attempt he made to flee toward the stairwell was thwarted by their hulking metallic forms. He was continually backed into a corner, forced to retreat, or sent sprawling to the ground. His footing became perilous amid the wreckage of the room.

  Seeking an opportunity, Risens took advantage of the gap between the pair of sentinels, darting toward the stairwell. All the speed he could muster amounted to nothing as his progress snapped to a halt a few steps past the pair. He felt the sting of the clawed appendage as it clamped down on his left shoulder. Instead of being tossed mercilessly across the room, he was hoisted upward, reeled back toward the mechanism’s fiery core.

  He watched in horror, helpless to react as it spun him around, pulling him close to its rusted metallic frame. The heat from the machine’s metal heart was searing. Risens gritted his teeth as the bladed arm of the second stabbed toward his body.

  The impact of the steel lance against his side sent a violent spasm through his whole body. But he rebounded from the blow, his back slamming into the frame of the sentinel behind him. Still suspended by the clamping arm, he swung his daggers wildly, his feeble attempts to block the incoming strike with his blades merely sparked, perhaps defacing the beasts with minor scratches.

  The second sentinel grabbed him, this time the clamp coming down hard over his left biceps. He clenched his jaw, refusing to scream as a bladed appendage stabbed forward again. With little freedom of motion, all he could do was to shift his body at the last moment in a pitiful attempt to save his life. This time, there was little rebounding from the stab.

  The instant pain that ripped through him was agonizing, though he was surprised to feel it at all. The sentinels, clearly primed not to simply debilitate, had a clear shot at a killing strike, yet the strike missed the mark, though the side of his chest, close to his armpit, paid the price.

  There was a resounding, hollow impact of metal striking metal that echoed close to his ear. A tingling jolt of energy surged through him, and without warning, the sentinels released their hold.

  Even though he was only suspended a meter from the ground, the fall was terrifying. His legs buckled as they reached the stone floor, his body feeling as if it shattered with the impact. As fast as he could muster, he scrambled from his sure death at the hands of the gnomish mechanisms. His shoes scraped as they failed to find purchase on the paper-strewn floor. It was several moments before his panicked mind realized that silence had descended over the area.

  It only took a moment of investigation to determine the cause. The sentinel that had stabbed at him lay inert on the stone floor. The other had been mounted to the wall behind it by the first’s bladed arm.

  Risens was keenly aware that this was an inappropriate moment to question his survival, yet the situation demanded it. It. He felt the warm trickle of blood as it soaked the left side of his chest, yet remarkably, he was still alive. He returned his blades to their sheaths before carefully dabbing the wound. His chest was sore from the repeated beatings, yet the killing blow had been deflected. He patted carefully against his chest, smiling as his salvation became clear.

  The compact form of the Raven’s Guide he had stolen had unintentionally come to his aid. Whatever magical protection was over the diminutive manuscript had blocked and then deflected the devastating blow from the sentinel. He was sure ribs were broken, and fairly certain a muscle or two had torn, yet those were injuries he’d suffered through on numerous occasions and would likely do so again.

  He spotted the unconscious caretaker, then looked around at the noxious gas still filling the room. How was he still upright?

  Another puzzle had been added to the seemingly never-ending chain of questions that had plagued him since visiting the Raven’s Court. Perhaps whatever voice beckoned him there could provide the answer he sought. First, he would need to staunch the blood that flowed freely from his side.

  Removing the jar he’d been given by the healer, he slid to the wall, leaning his back heavily against the stone before popping the vessel’s cork with his teeth. Working through a series of short breaths, he dipped his finger into the viscous gel before slathering a healthy amount over the gash in his chest.

  Tears formed in his eyes, and he held back a scream.