As the incongruent, mimicked notes of Lady Myrenas’s voice sounded through the room, the sentinels came to an abrupt and definitive stop. Whether primed for an attack, gliding over the flaming floor, or shaking off the final vestiges of the burning cloth, they moved no long, turning away and retreating back toward their hidden keeps. In staggered bursts, the closest of the three remaining constructs dragged the dead weight of the fourth shell, digging a deep gouge in the stone floor. A permanent line of its departure would be left in its wake. Returning to their shelters, two doors closed, hiding their steel, magic-infused frames as if they were nothing more than near-death memories.

  Along the right side of the chamber, the last of the sentinels struggled to pull the wreckage of its fallen brethren into the concealment of its hold. The sharp grating of the last stone door closing was accentuated by the popping of steel as the useless hunk was partially crushed by rock. With a shudder, the mechanism controlling the doorway failed as the pressure proved too great. Two knights had received their former dwellers; one suffered a half-closed compartment, and the fourth stood ajar, having nothing left to conceal.

  In the center of the room, the four massive blades groaned as they pulled free from the shattered pavers. Fragments of stone and dirt rained from the retreating swords, hissing as they met the flames that still burned greedily below. The mangled remnants of what was once the chandelier swung listlessly from the last of the blades to rise.

  Once they met at the pinnacle of the room, a hiss like air escaping through gritted teeth sounded through the chamber. A fine mist of lightly colored gas poured from the mouths of each of the colossal guardians. It rolled down their armored bodies like a sheet of water over the Quayside cliffs and clung to the stone as it spread out over the floor. It popped and sizzled when it met the flames, and the alchemical fire was snuffed out. With a final irritated whisper, the last of the blaze was extinguished.

  Risens loosened his grip on his blades, relaxing his stance as the threats of the room faded seemingly as quickly as they had come. The thin layer of golden mist that hung over the floor dissipated, fading as if merely a figment of his imagination. There was no hiding the fact that a disaster of sorts had occurred in the room. The shattered tiles of the floor, marred by deep gouges; the charred stone the broken chandelier, and the failed concealment of the third and fourth sentinels were not something that would be overlooked. At the moment, however, he cared little for the destruction of the elaborate room. The groaning of the gilded vault door opening was payment enough for his sacrifice.

  The satisfaction faded as the sudden burning on his right cheek distracted him from his success. It was as if someone haddrawn a design on the skin of his face with the burning tip of a blade. He squinted against the pain as it traced across his cheek.

  He dabbed cautiously at the metal of the Shadows Shroud, finding it hotter then expected, yet only warm to the touch. With the tip of his finger he registered something new—a small set of swirling lines that wrapped down along his cheek toward his chin. The burning felt like the application of another brand, yet this time, it was seemingly etched into the mask that covered the lower half of his face.

  He failed to grasp what had caused the reaction. His first thought traveled to the most logical reasoning, though he quickly wrote off the conjecture. He’d dodged the massive blades of the colossal statues and avoided the deadly slashes of the sentinels. He’d felt the sting of sharp stones on his back as they tore through the fabric of his thin clothing but he was confident nothing had touched his face—nothing during the abbreviated battle and certainly nothing since. The sensation had occurred only after he’d used the Voice of the Raven to open the sealed vault. Unsure how long he’d remain undiscovered, he relegated the questions to the back of his mind, jogging forward toward the open vault.

  Risens had no question that the trove of information contained within the desks and cabinets was invaluable, but he had no desire to filter through all the files. There were simply too many.

  Instead, he followed the path Lady Myrenas had taken, starting with the cabinet she had only recently utilized. Carefully sliding the drawer open, he was taken aback by the sheer volume of paperwork contained within. Rolls of parchments, stacked and labeled under the scrawling of the word, “Deeds” were likely holdings of her family’s estate. He had little interest in these and moved toward leafing through the pages on the other side of the cabinet. A wide folder—stretching at the seams, it was so full—caught his attention. Along the edge, he read a word that turned his stomach and confirmed her treason.

  Dreamcatchers.

  It was a name he knew all too well and should have expected. Burned into the cover was the symbol he recognized as the mark of their calling. Three vaguely birdlike objects descending toward a crescent-shaped net.

  The organization was one that had harried Halthome for decades, though they lacked definitive structure. Even with the extensive and brutal reach of the King, disturbingly little was known about their influence or ranks. That their sworn duty was stated to overthrow Lathrenon was more than enough to sentence them to death, yet none of their identities were known. Over the years, Risens had been tasked to investigate murmured claim. He’d always returned empty handed. He’d seen posters discretely hung on walls and within the message boards found in the seediest of taverns throughout the city. They promised a new start, a freedom from the tyranny of the King, playing off the rankling sentiment of many of Windwake’s subjects, but their truest agenda remained a mystery. Some even blamed the current King for the drought that plagued the city and the surrounding farmland, though it was an absurd connection. After continued decades of searching and finding no harm caused by them—save for arbitrary posters—they were deemed little more than an annoyance.

  A festering voice of discontent. One without reach or backing.

  With the knowledge of Lady Myrenas’ involvement, his opinion was now indelibly changed.

  Risens fingered the pages. Messages scratched in code. He pulled at one of the random pages stuffed into the book, scowling at the words.

  “The deaths of Duke Karieas and the innocents of his estate are the fault of one man: King Lathrenon. His assassins perpetrated the massacre. Nearly fifty souls were condemned to death so that the false king’s ambition would remain unchecked. He has gone too far. His tyranny must end before it buries us all.”

  The blood rushed to Risens’ ears and he grew dizzy. The false king…

  He’d heard those words before, and though it wasn’t a novel concept for someone against Lathrenon, the coincidence left him wobbly on his knees.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  He swallowed hard and replaced the page in the book, knowing he’d uncovered more than enough to satisfy his master. Though as he investigated further, he could see nothing but those two words running through his mind. Regardless of whether or not there was a true connection, he couldn’t risk wasting time. He had to continue forward.

  The words of this page alone in her possession proved her treason. Sealed her fate. What else might come to light hidden within the overflowing tome?

  He flipped through more pages, his heart rate increasing with every turn. Images, sketched onto parchment depicted images and scenes he knew too well. Unsurprisingly, King Lathrenon’s face graced several of the pages. One in particular stood out from the rest. What looked like timestamps were followed by coded words listed beneath. Though he couldn’t decipher the words, it had the appearance of a schedule. Lady Myrenas’s position on the King’s council was dangerous. She had access to far more sensitive information than she should have. Her treason had been suspected, but the depth of it was shocking. For her to collaborate with the Dreamcatchers was a surprise.

  Until now, they were not taken seriously, just rabble-rousers and pot-stirrers. Now, Risens realized the King and the crown had a complete misunderstanding of the veracity of their power and claim.

  Continuing, he stopped at a series of vivid drawings. His anger and frustration seethed. The hedge maze at the edge of the Great Exposition. The building next to Adalhard’s Bank of Tomes. Though not precise, these were the locations of Risens’ hidden windSteps through the city.

  Fearing what would be next, he carefully turned to the next page. As disturbing as the pictures were, it was the following section that caught the breath in his throat. Written clearly atop the page for all to understand, he stared at the word in disbelief.

  Rightmaker.

  Scratched across the next half dozen pages was small yet intricately written script all in the same code that defied his understanding. That the information detailed him specifically and his activities, he couldn’t be certain.

  The name of his station wasn’t unknown to the general populace. His identity, however, was. He scanned rapidly, hoping—or perhaps not hoping—to see something that might resemble his own name etched onto the parchment.

  The decision made was frantic, done out of desperation without explanation. Leafing to the end of the section that bore his title, he collected the pages before carefully tearing them from the binder. Folding the stack of parchments, he tucked them into his breast pocket. Next, he took the tome itself, free of any mention of him.

  He had all the evidence he had been sent to retrieve. It was time for him to make an exit. Lady Myrenas knew far too much. The Dreamcatchers knew far too much.

  The tome was large and awkward, yet he secured it in one the pockets that lined the interior of his cloak. It would be tricky to move with it, yet his temporary discomfort was a minor triviality to the security of the King and Halthome. Slowing only to avoid re-triggering the trap, he stalked back across the ruined tiles of the antechamber. If any beyond the Lady of the house was able to access the vault, they would undoubtably know that their information, their secrets had been compromised. It was something beyond his ability to change now. A wrinkle in a plan that had at one point seemed entirely impossible. Pausing at the side of the butler statue, he concentrated on the memories of Lady Myrenas’s voice before whispering the code once more. The door to the Gilded Cage closed as he stepped out of the sound-dampening protection of the chamber.

  Again, the lingering doubt crept into his mind. Why had he been sent here without the required password? Most locks were of no concern to him. His skills would grant him access to nearly anywhere within the city, yet he failed to see how he would have entered the Gilded Cage without the unexpected assistance of the Voice of the Raven. Even had he followed her, there was no way he would have been able to cross the wide open, well lit room without her knowledge.

  Yes, it would have been a simple feat to incapacitate her, either permanently or for a matter of minutes, but that would have likely blown both his cover and his mission. As it was now, the eventual and inescapable discovery of the destruction in the room troubled him. When that time came, would Lady Myrenas go into hiding? He expected much of the sensitive information hidden within would be secreted away. In light of that thought, he regretted only taking the single tome, yet he was limited to what he could conceal within the flaps of his cloak.

  The coded pages bearing his title and the images of the entrances to his disguised portals were the most concerning.

  This time around, he had been sent for information, not destruction. Had the king known that his was an impossible task? Had he sent him to die?

  Risens wrestled with the disconcerting thought as he stopped in the shadows of the stairwell. If the sounds or tremors of his battle in the vault been noted, there was no sign of it. No alarm rang through the house; no tramping of boots filled the air as the private guards descended onto the scene of the crime. Lost among the battle for his own life, the worries he’d carried with him into the chamber reasserted themselves.

  Lady Myrenas had noted the absence of the guard in the hallway. She’d sent the soldier that trailed in her wake to retrieve him. He knew that Marlaine was well equipped to handle herself. However, if her safety was connected with his survival, it presented a concern. He’d only just saved her from death by his own blades to throw her into the fire once more.

  He hastened up the stairs, eager to return to the private suite that they currently shared. Commotion from the second floor stopped him in his tracks. The sharp, distinctive clatter of dishes smashing against a carpeted floor gave him pause. Disguised by the heady shadows of the narrow doorway, he peered cautiously into the corridor beyond. Muffled shouting emanated from behind a closed door ending in a heavy slap—hand against flesh. Blue mageLight flooded the hall as the door creaked open. Tears streaming down her face, a young girl scampered from the room, her wracking sobs echoing through the hall.

  “You little wench,” the soldier screamed as he lunged after her quivering form. In one hand, he held a wooden tray. The other stopped ominously above her head, though the intent alone drove her to her knees. “You’d best be more careful, Aleth, or the next time, it’ll be the switch. Fetch me more food and drink and then clean up the mess you’ve made.”

  He tossed the wooden tray into her hunched form, causing her to spill across the stone floor.

  Risens had to steel himself from taking action. His hands were balled tight enough to bleach the color from his knuckles. In a frantic effort to collect the tray, the girl scrambled across the floor. For the briefest instant, she looked in his direction. She couldn’t see him through the shadows, but her visage was clear to him.

  She was young, no more than twelve years old and scrawny. Her dirty blonde hair—wavy and unkempt—fell in loose sheet over her face. There was a peculiar familiarity in her bright blue eyes. A churning sensation within him was unsettling. Beneath the inferno of rage that smoldered in his belly was a recollection long since relegated to the depths of his consciousness.

  Though their masters were very different, he’d once been a lowly wretch like her. His teachers—far more vicious—schooled him in the arts of death not domestics, yet he recognized the posture for what it was.

  ”I, I’m sorry, Sir Korning, sir,” she stutter through the words. “It won’t happen again.” With a final wracking sob, she tore off down the hallway, the dangerous glare of the knight haunting her steps.

  Risens thumbed the hilt of his dagger, judging the distance of his throw. He could kill or maim the man with ease yet to what end? The justice was likely due, though it would cause Risens trouble in the long run. He was about to continue his retreat back to his private quarters when the idea inserted itself unbeckoned into his mind.

  Cupping his against his mouth, he focused on his newly acquired skill and called into the hallway. “Sir Korning.” He mimicked the distinct command of Lady Myrenas. “Your assistance is needed. Meet me at the Gilded Cage.”

  Though it was still utterly disturbing, another’s voice emanate from his mouth, Risens found less discomfort in the action. The words seemed to flow with a natural resonance that was clearer than he’d expected. Without waiting for a reply, he sprinted down the steps, ducking into the darkle of the stairwell as the sound of hastening footsteps thumped on the stairs above.