The sense of accomplishment coursed through Risens as he crossed back through the portal to the Roost. He served King Lathrenon, though thankfully, his place was not one in the public eye, or even the nobles’. His assignments and tasks varied, yet few over the years involved remaining in the King’s presence for overlong periods of time.

  He knew he could hide the mask for a while, though, without extending the duration, it was only a matter of time before he was discovered.

  Before his life was void.

  Though it was difficult to accurately assess, he guessed that the symbols flashing in his vision were doubled, meaning he had twice as long. If the estimation was correct, he’d enjoy an hour before the Shadows Shroud would again cover his face.

  It would have to do.

  Curiosity tugged at him. He scanned the remaining doors on the first level. Eleven more tasks. Eleven more tests remained, each one with the potential to gain untold powers and skills. For a moment, he considered rushing to the next, to solve the puzzle that would grant him access and the cloisters within. It was the lingering sense of duty that stayed his footsteps.

  He had no indication of how long he’d tarried inside the Roost. Hours must have passed while he investigated the chamber, illuminated the doorways, and solved the puzzles of the first door. He wouldn’t be surprised if the day—which had just been warming under the rising rays of the sun—would now be waning toward darkness.

  He had an incomplete task. The King would allow no grace for his failure.

  Try as he might, the clawing words of Mother Raven rang in his ears.

  The false king.

  He tamped down the irritation at the insinuation, yet a quiet part of him had no qualms about the estimation. The seeds of doubt had been planted.

  Fighting against the whispers of misgivings, his decision was made. Tasks in Windwake would need to be accomplished, though he was determined to return as soon as he could. Risens had nearly reached the edge of the portal to the Raven’s Court when his progress came to a grinding halt. Try as he might, he couldn’t take another step forward.

  The syllables of each word struck him like a hammer beating against his chest.

  You fool. Ignorance. Complacency. All will cost you your life.

  The ominous voice had thundered in his mind on several occasions. It demanded respect and obedience. It dripped with power beyond measure. For the first time, he tasted the vile, caustic sense of pure anger.

  Have you not comprehended that limitations bear little importance in this place? Assume the true form or perish in the void, for you are not worthy.

  Risens didn’t know when he had fallen to his knees, but that was where he found himself when the ringing in his ears ceased. As the last echo faded, he struggled to his feet, chiding himself for his very near failure.

  The voice was full of fury, and it terrified him. That it had saved him from death was curious, though his thoughts darkened as he pondered the words. Perhaps it hadn’t saved him, but it had prevented him from a foolish death at his own hands.

  The true form. They were the exact words it had used before, though until this point, his mind had confused the meaning. The natural skin of his face was no longer his natural state. In the absence of the Shadows Shroud, he somehow felt naked and incomplete. It was the mask, the guise of the raven, that was to be his proper form.

  Though he’d never attempted the feat, he knew the results before he had initiated the command. With a thought, the metal mask returned. Though he couldn’t feel it, he sensed the comfort of it against his cheeks, wiping away any lingering traces of unnatural discomfort.

  If he could return the mask as will, would the reverse work as well?

  Satisfaction bloomed in his mind as the Shroud responded again, this time without the discomforting feeling of calling upon the skill prematurely. The initial sign —the numbers —flashed in his vision. At least, in this place, he was unburdened by the stricture of limitations.

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  With his mind set on the possibilities, he returned the Shadows Shroud before striding into the portal. Having prepared for the wild sensations, the crossing was far less disturbing than the first time, though it was not without a fair share of unease. He sent a silent thought of gratitude to the voice that had stopped him from sealing his doom, though he doubted that it would intervene again.

  The emptiness of the Raven’s Court wasn’t unexpected, but the long rays of morning sunlight lancing through the dusty air were. It had been morning when he’d entered the Roost. He found little reason to believe that only an hour had passed since he had left. Panic ran through his mind as he wondered if he’d long overstayed his welcome in the portal. Could he have missed an entire day?

  As unplausible as it seemed, the worry nagged at him as he departed the shrine. The outstretched wings that had revealed the portal abruptly closed, wrapping around the figure of the kneeling half-man, half-raven as he stepped from the dilapidated courtyard.

  A nagging fear that he’d never be able to return tugged at his very soul, but he cast the thought away. So long as he was worthy—so long as the mask remained—he’d find refuge in the Roost. Of that, he was certain.

  Risens traced a different path as he worked his way back to the castle. He could feel the slight disorientation, the initial effects of lack of sleep clawing at his eyelids, and resorted to a measure of rest before setting out to find the courtesan. The city was massive, yet so too was his reach. There were few places for even those accustomed to hiding and living on the questionable side of the law. It would take time, but he would find her. Although she was unaware of it, her fate was already sealed.

  Leaving Broad Quarter, he moved into Springs Square. Known by its residents as the Core, a name that referenced the diametric nature of those within. Whether it was vibrant or rotten was a topic of discussion, one that was heavily flavored by experience and perspective. Centuries past, it was founded around a trio of natural springs, bubbling up their pure, cold, life-sustaining water from the earth. It was the beating heart of the city, full of ideas and culture, prospects and opportunities. To a disproportionately large number, it was the rotten Core, a festering remnant of their freedom now that the sprawl of those with power pushed them further into poverty.

  In the present, it was a rambling blend of estates, small shops, and eateries, sandwiched between industry and hovels. While other districts had more linear identities, the Springs varied with the shift in the winds. Each cobble took on a different persona, each facade unique and varied.

  A low wall bordered the edge between Broad and Springs, though the abrupt end to the derelict, tumble-down houses—forgotten by time and attention—was extreme. A strong martial presence was stationed along the border between the districts, though their primary concern was keeping the uncouth denizens of the Broad from entering Springs Square. A group of six soldiers was presently engaged in pushing back against a man who, clothed only in a fraying scrap of fabric over his groin, screamed a virulent cacophony of obscenities and warnings. A prophecy about demons and retribution poured from his wild lips before, without cause, he turned and disappeared back into Broad Quarter’s dirty streets.

  Risens left the familiar feeling and cover of the Shadows Shroud in place as he slipped unnoticed through the district. Windwake was a wide and vastly diverse city, though nowhere was the disparity so extreme. He watched from the shadows as an armed contingent of personal guards, surrounding their charge, fended off the hands of a beggar by disturbingly brutal measures.

  His eyes squinted into razor-thin slits, seething with fire. He mentally judged the distance that separated them, analyzing the speed and force required to bury his blade in the eye of the man allowing his guards to behave with such violence. Risens was familiar with most of the nobility of Windwake in terms of their looks and political leaning. The current puffed-up specimen, Jurgen Clocheret, was the eldest child of Lord Basile Clocheret.

  They lorded over a large corner of the Springs, their manor growing greedily around one of the few natural sources of water. There had been no recompense or justice for those who had inhabited the space prior to their land grab. At the time, they were ardent supporters of the King, though their current duplicity and grumbles were well known to Lathrenon.

  Unlike Duke Karieas, Risens knew Clocheret was not on the King’s list of nobles to be dealt with. He’d been given substantial latitude in meting out the justice at the tip of his blades. Members of the nobility, however, were targets allowed only when sanctioned by His Majesty. The disguise of the Shroud would hide his identity, though he knew that word of a masked assassin murdering a noble and his entourage would reach Lathrenon’s ears before sunset. Surrounded by half a dozen well-armed and well-trained soldiers, it was a task few beyond Risens were skilled enough to complete alone.

  Risens sighed as he released the hold on his blades. Clocheret’s life would be saved for the moment.

  Melting back into the shadows, he stuck to the seedier blocks and structures of the Core as he moved through the city. He kept his track varied, switching between alleys and rooftops.

  He paused upon one said rooftop as he tracked the sounds of alarm somewhere off in the distance. Scanning the skyline for signs of a fire, he found none. Alarms of various types rang through the city with a daily frequency. It was only in rare situations—like the discovery of the massacre at Duke Kariaes’s estate the night before—when the citywide alarm bells would sound. Clearing the next gap between roofs, he heard yet another call of distress. This time, he expected he knew the cause.