The feather dug deep into the door like a talon through soft tissue. With the other doors, as he solved the cipher, the heavy sound of the stone panel scraping the floor was deep and hollow. But this one was different. A blood-curdling shriek filled the chamber and caused him to frantically reach for his daggers, falling back a defensive stance.

  Where the feather stabbed into the stone, a trickle of crimson oozed from the puncture wound. He panicked, fearing he had misunderstood the challenge. Failure in the Roost had always been painful, yet would a sin this great could end his life. From the top of the door, more bloody streaks poured down the face of the stone.

  As the torrent passed, the door vanished, leaving a view to the windStep behind. From utter terror to incredulity, Risens relaxed, turning toward the always watching ravens behind him. All now bowed their heads in respect of his achievement.

  He relaxed his posture, lowering his hands to his sides as at last the rippling void of the portal became clear.

  Power lurked within.

  The words of the Mother Raven rang in his ears as he stepped into the darkness. “The winds are turbulent. Your wings are not yet strong enough.”

  This would be another trial—one he would pass, granting him the strength needed to prevail in the face of whatever tests stood in his path. She revealed her fears that he would not learn in time. Halthome simmered with discontent, and Windwake bordered closer to the edge of revolt than ever. But of the timeline, he had not even the faintest clue. Often times, ancient beings see time differently. Perhaps he had decades or centuries. Though, maybe it was mere hours. That was an element he could not control. But there was more, something he couldn’t quite finger. It was a peculiar sensation, yet he felt that her cryptic words spoke to something far greater than the potential revolts in Windwake.

  Clearing the windStep, he arrived in another small chamber, similar in make to all the other rooms within the Roost. The familiar dark stones were fitted together, neatly covering the floors, walls, and ceiling. He considered the implications of the individual spaces. As with the portals around Windwake, they transported him to varying but predictable locations around the castle and city. Did all of these deliver him to different rooms within one structure as the construction hinted, or were they spread out across miles of the unknown?

  He added it to the ever-growing list of questions about the temple, yet his focus shifted to the room at hand. Unlike the other trial chambers, there was no shrine, though he could feel the power that lurked within. The focal points of the room were alarming. In the center of the small chamber a crude stone table held the body of what appeared to be a man. The floor surrounding it was stained darker than the rest in an uneven pattern that reminded him of the residue left by pools of blood. A second figure loomed over it, a few steps behind.

  Risens froze. Besides the ravens who watched, judging his progress and failures, he’d seen nothing alive in this temple, much less something this humanlike. The clothing covering both of their forms was plain, drab, and grey—utilitarian in nature. The figure on the table mumbled softly, the sound filtering through a rough sack that shrouded his face. The tone, sorrowful and panicked, was unrecognizable. Unnoticed during his initial inspection, binds secured his hands and feet. Thick straps looped through slits in the table and fastened beneath, preventing any motion beyond the frantic.

  The man lurking over him, while dressed similarly, exuded a potent measure of superiority, power, and control. His hands were locked behind his back and he leaned from foot to foot as if waiting impatiently for something. His face was the most bizarre feature of all. The skin of his face, framed by long dark hair, was startlingly ashen. His cracked lips were frozen in an impassive scowl. The rest of his face was eerily blank, like its creator had merely given up after the chin and mouth. Nose to hairline, the skin was smooth and featureless.

  As Risens took a step forward, the figure spoke.

  “At last, you have come and debts will be paid.” The voice was familiar, dripping with authority, yet Risens couldn’t place it. As the words flowed, his mind flashed between the two voices in his world that demanded the most respect and commanded the greatest authority. King Lathrenon and the mysterious voice that had guided him here. Though the tonality seemed to contain hints of both, it was the latter that felt more prevalent.

  “Here lies a man condemned,” it continued, the mouth moving naturally while the face remained rigid and still. “Take the blades and end his wretched life.”

  A bubble of anxiety formed in Risens’ gut. Though far less public, the scene was eerily reminiscent to one that had just played out this afternoon. One that had left his mind questioning and his stomach churning. With tentative steps, he moved closer to the table, keeping focus on the figure lording over the process.

  Reaching the edge of the table, he spotted the blades he had been ordered to collect. At first glance, the pair were identical. Longer than his normal dagger, but shorter than a standard sword, they had a razor’s edge on one side. The other was flat, curving gently to a wicked point. He was infinitely familiar with the usage of gladiuses like these, preferring them to long swords. In the right hands, they were quicker while just as lethal. The blade was plain, yet needed no decoration to accentuate its deadly perfection. The guard, black as night, was narrow and rounded, and the handle slightly longer than he was used to. The grip was the most striking feature. Unlike the expected tight spiral of leather, the wrap was finely detailed, appearing to be constructed of overlapping feathers, not cord.

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  Collecting the blades, he was immediately impressed at the honest perfection of their feel. Each was perfectly balanced, fitting comfortably into his palm as if they had been created for his hands alone. The glimmer of a thought excited him. Perhaps they had been created for just that.

  “You have the tools, now complete the task.” The man demanded his obedience.

  Disturbingly, Risens felt an unexpected pull from the weapons, as if they had minds of their own. And within him, he could nearly taste their longing for blood.

  Something about the scene felt disturbingly peculiar and infinitely wrong.

  “What are you waiting for?” the man asked, his tone growing impatient. “Kill him.”

  Risens glared at the nearly faceless figure, thankful it had no eyes with which to see the look carved into his face.

  Risens was a killer, but he didn’t murder without cause. “Who are you?”

  The responding voice thundered, hammering into him like a blow to his gut. “You will not question. You will kill.”

  He lost his hold on the weapons, the blades clanging to the stone at his feet as he doubled over at the waist. Anger raged in his ears, but the physical force that accompanied it was astounding. His head snapped forward as he was thrust violently backward across the room.

  He vaguely recalled passing through the windStep as his world spun madly around him. Through blurred eyes, he stared at the natural striations of the black stone tiles as he gasped to return the air to his lungs. The shifting shadows of the chamber cast mocking silhouettes of ravens across the floor beneath him.

  He understood the message loud and clear.

  Questioning the actions of the faceless master had caused him to fail the test. Unsure how he knew, there was no doubt, the blades possessed an unnatural thirst for blood, matching the intention of the speaker. The whole scene had felt wrong to him, leaving him with a similar slimy feeling that he had when he departed the execution of Lady Myrenas earlier this day. The corelation between the event and the current scene was disturbingly in line, as if the Roost had mirrored the trial after the experience. It was a curious thought he would give light to in the future, though at the present, the challenge of the room was a more pressing concern.

  Dusting himself off, he straightened his cowl before striding confidently through the doorway. The scene remained as it had the first time he’d entered the chamber.

  “At last, you have come and debts will be paid,” the voice growled. “Here lies a man condemned. Take the blades and end his wretched life.”

  The words were repeated verbatim, leading Risens to believe this was no true man, but a replica—nothing more than the fabrications of any animal or beast found in the previous rooms.

  Risens paused a step before the table, crossing his arms instead of reaching for the blades.

  “Of what crime has he been convicted?” It was risky, questioning the man, but Risens needed to know how this would work. Was he only held accoutable for inquiries made after already accepting the role of executioner, or would he be cast out even now, before the blades were in his hands. He clenched the muscles of his core, preparing them for the blow he expected to follow.

  But it did not come.

  “His guilt or innocence is irrelevant,” the snarling mouth screamed at him, the sound nearly deafening as it tore through the chamber. “It is my will that he dies. Collect the blades and end his wretched life.”

  Risens squinted into hardened slits as he glared at the figure. The raw power that it exuded rippled against him as it flexed its strength. Unlike the strength of the uncanny voice that had commanded him, that had applied the Brand on his skin, this felt manufactured and insincere. It was disturbingly reminiscent of that which he felt in the presence of King Lathrenon.

  Seconds ticked by until his delay crossed the unknown boundary that separated acquiescence from defiance. The unseen blow again robbed him of his breath as it tossed him from the room. Risens remained where he landed, sprawled face first on the cold stone tile. His breaths were shallow, his core, even girded for the punishing blow, ached from the abuse. Over the punishing discomfort, the fire of his agitation mounted. With his hands balled, he forced himself off the floor andstormed back into the chamber.

  Somehow, the standing, faceless speaker had a more snobbish appearance than his last visit, though it was likely his own perturbation projecting onto the blank canvas of its face.

  “At last, you have come and debts will be paid.”

  “And I’ll collect your blades,” Risens interrupted. He appeased a touch of his wrath by replying using the Voice of the Raven to mimic the speaker’s voice.

  Childish, yet entirely satisfying.

  Whatever power lorded over the room was far from amused with his trick. For a third time, he was propelled bodily through the windStep. This time, it was the yawning blackness of the lofty heights of the Roost that greeted him. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the closest raven peering down from its pedestal, its stoney eyes thoroughly disapproving of his failures.

  Risens clenched his eyes shut, regaining his breath before forcing his racing heart to slow. His anger had gotten the better of him. Between this morning’s execution—better described as torture—and this, the day had exacted a toll the likes of which he’d never experienced. He had lost all patience and stomach for killing and supposed duty.

  His loyalty was to Halthome and to the King who ruled it. The cracks that had formed in his perception of the all-powerful were widening with every interaction. He’d have given his life for the man and the Kingdom he represented, and nearly had on dozens of occasions prior to the last few days. The complete destruction of Duke Karieas’s estate was the catalyst for his current state. The gleeful brutality displayed this morning had framed the image of a man fueled by desires entirely centered on his own expansive ego. Consumed by the conspiracies and discourse that swirled around his oppressive rule, Risens was no longer confident he’d follow the King with blind disregard.

  Still, he feared the voice that commanded his attention. But its motivations were unknown. It had not demanded the death of any to this point, though he was concerned, judging by the test, that it was priming him for the eventuality. It had offered no room for disobedience, and unlike the limited sight of Lathrenon, it could see everything he did.