Risens’ dour mood settled over him like a cloud as he slipped silently through the shadows of Windwake. Even in the fullness of day’s light, his mind’s gloom was not shared only by the darkness of the alley ways, but the citizens as well. Surprisingly, for a cloudless, pleasant day none were out and about. The streets were empty.

  His thoughts were consumed by the distraction of the afternoon’s disaster. His neck felt as tight as a key-wound clock spring. He had no doubt that the King had made the tenuous attitude of the city far worse. Sure, the people had taken action, had heeded the call to rain their fury down upon Lady Myrenas, but they were no killers.

  They were not him.

  His tasks—those yet to be given him by the King—would keep him exceedingly busy in the coming days. Far busier still if the royal learners were able to decipher the Dreamcatchers’ tome.

  He breathed a pent up sigh of relief as the familiar crumbling stone and weathered gate of the Raven’s Court welcomed him into it the solitude of its embrace. Mother Raven crouched at the side of the Shrine of the Appraiser, cocking her headas he approached.

  “You still live.” Her words were not a question.

  “Did you have doubts?”

  She shrugged. Rising slowly, she stretched out her arms as if mimicking the action of a bird drying river-drenched feathers. “The winds are turbulent. Your wings are not yet strong enough.”

  “And, yet, I survive,” he snapped. He couldn’t help it. He’d grown weary of her riddles, her poetic and cryptic messages.

  “Luck will only carry you so far, fledgling. It has been on your side, but I would consider you wise to take caution. There is a storm brewing.”

  Despite his irritation, Risens was vexed by the peculiar warning. That she was knowledgeable about the goings on of the Kingdom, he was certain. Just how much she knew—as with all things with her—was an unanswered question.

  “It has not rained in these parts for many months,” Risens argued.

  “That is the problem with you. You only see with your eyes.”

  “And what would you have me do, train my nose for vision?”

  She laughed, and then, with the sound of flapping wings, she stood directly before him. He felt the pinch of her nails against the Shadows Shroud as she grabbed his by the chin, twisting his head from side to side with little care for the forcefulness. Her wizened yet beady eyes pinched tight as she stared at his right cheek, where he’d felt the burn outside the Gilded Cage.

  “You have grown,” she noted—though it seemed as if she were merely talking to herself while inspecting a statue. She ran her fingernail across the Shadows Shroud, tracing the new line etched into its metal. “It seems your proper application has yielded results.”

  While the mysteries of the Brands on his torso and the markings on his mask remained a mystery to him, it seemed Mother Raven understood it all. A gurgle of anger rose within him.

  “Yet I still remain in the dark,” he growled.

  “Darkness is for eyes, fledgling,” she said. “You must learn to see without them.”

  Risens shook his head.

  “You’ve done well to enhance your skill,” she continued. “There are countless ways for them to grow between each evolution—though it seems you’ve discovered that. And done so quickly. However, you must take care to neither overwork nor neglect the gifts you’ve been given.”

  He appraised the woman as she studied his mask with inquisitive eyes. They were so close now that he could see the chasms in her skin. Deep wrinkles upon a face that appeared like a weather-marred map. That she was old, he was certain, but the word ancient repeated itself unendingly in his mind.

  “Both given and earned,” he retorted, careful to keep the emotion from his voice. The woman had a way of aggravating him in an eerily similar fashion to Fendri. He quickly tamped down the thought as even the thought of his name brought on a visceral reaction. With a more measured tone, he added, “As you’ve recorded yourself.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said.

  After a beat of silence, Risens whispered, “Why me? Why have I been chosen for this boon?”

  She backed off a step but her unblinking eyes never left his. “It is true that there is some credit due. But I caution you, do not be too quick to assume credit when it is, in fact, owed to luck.”

  “What luck?” Risens demanded. “I used cunning and experience to—”

  “Many will take the simplest grain of compliment, distort it from its true intent, molding it into pride. It is vanity that destroys progress. That limits the likelihood to succeed and grow.”

  She turned her back to him, taking a few steps closer to the shrine before angling her head to the sky above. The silhouette of a lone raven circled high above. “As for why you have been chosen, it was never my decision, so I cannot answer without traces of deceit. Everyone must stretch their wings before taking flight.”

  “But not everyone, right?” he said. “Not all have found this place. Not all have met you. What is different about me?”

  She smiled softly, but as quickly as her lips tug the pull, the line retreated. “It is not my place to say. You have done well, fledgling. Your wings strain for purchase, yet are far from being developed. I fear you will not learn in time.”

  Risens was as stunned by the compliment as he was by the chilling premonition. Before he could open his mouth to respond, she was gone. A single feather floated in her absence. He searched the heavens and found her perched atop thetowering building to his right. She lingered for barely a breath before disappearing into the cloudless sky above. He watched as a second bird joined her before both flew out of view behind the buildings to the north.

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  She had left him with much to ponder, yet only a few answers. The temporary distraction from the thoughts that burdened his mind, while frustrating, were a relief. The voice that commanded his respect still remained unnamed and unknown.

  At least she had provided a ration of clarity involving the latest of his skills. The Voice of the Raven had improved notably in quality and ease after the painful etching that burned into his cheek. Its application was pivotal, likely saving his life while granting him access to the gilded vault, and it had proven enough to increase the efficacy. It was curious, he’d commanded control over the Shadows Shroud for far longer, tested its application alone and under duress, yet the only increase was granted through the shrine at the conclusion of a trial. Yet this, the Voice of the Raven, had been improved upon repeated and skillful use.

  Each had been bestowed upon him by the power of the Brands, yet the more he considered them, the understanding dawned. One was tangible while the other was not. The mask that represented the true form of his face was physical and while he could control its presence to a degree, it was very much real. He ran his fingers over his metal beak, feeling the unexpectedly natural smoothness of the metal. Whether the Voice of the Raven was effected by the Shadows Shroud, he had not yet tested, yet it was a skill, much like magic, causing an effect without form.

  His answer momentarily satisfied the curiosity. Stepping forward, he carefully collected the spare feather left by her use of Dull Flight and the shrine spread its wings, welcoming him into its now familiar wavering, black embrace.

  Shaking off the disorienting chill and crushing speed of the portal, he stepped into the main hall of the Roost. Unlike the mageLock of his private quarters that had been contravened by Fendri’s trespass, the solitude of the area was complete. Without needing confirmation, he knew that he was alone.

  Looking at the judgmental stares of the stone ravens he revised his conjecture.

  “Sorry, friends.”

  He felt the peculiar need to voice his apology, to pay his respects to the watchers of the Roost. He laughed to himself as he considered if he was truly losing his mind—his awkward cackle doing little to convince himself of his remaining sanity. Under the watchful avian eyes, he reached the looming stone shrine at the far end of the room.

  He found himself surprised at the results of his precious experiment. The small pack he’d left at the base of the pedestal still remained. Rifling quickly through the contents, he was pleased to discover that not just the pack, but the items he’d brought into the Roost had endured. Biting off a chunk of the dried meat, he chewed the salted offering as he cast his eyes around the room. With the privacy of his room compromised, he could store what little valuable possessions he had here. The rooms had reset after every failed trial, but if the worldly goods weren’t impacted in the same fashion when he departed the Roost, it was a storage no one would ever have a chance of stumbling upon.

  Filing the thought away for another time, he considered his next initiative in the sacred temple. Each of the trials had been exhausting, their completion consuming far more than his capacity, both mentally and physically. He had worked to light all the doors, though, at his first failure, all but the one he’d just entered had reverted to shadow. As confident as he was in his abilities and skill, the Roost had proven that he had much to learn.

  “Fledgling,” he whispered to himself in a way that sounded like a curse.

  In the face of continued effort and his lack of understanding of the symbols that marked each doorway, he decided to forgo illuminating each one individually. While Dull Flight was a desirable skill, each benefit from the trials had proved invaluable. He would put his trust in the Roost and in the ominous, yet hopefully benevolent voice that bellowed commands into his ears.

  Collecting a candle from his pack, he lit the wick using a flame in the closest bowl. He peered at the raven statues for any last-minute inspiration, but found none. With a sigh, he stalked to the right side of the room. For whatever reason, he settled on the second portal from the end, closest to the colossal shrine.

  With the first touch of light from the candle, the impenetrable shadows melted away. The symbol revealed in the designs of the egress was one he’d only recognized from his previous excursions here. As a degree of trust had been placed in him, he would put himself in the hands of fate, letting it choose which door and which trial to attempt next.

  Like the others before it, the panel was framed by rounded trim, fit into the opening with near seamless perfection. However, the designs on each had been vastly different. He stared at the swirling features and immediately noted that each culminated in a point. The more he inspected the symbol itself, the more it appeared as if the design had been made using precision slashes of a blade.

  Careful to avoid the pointed features, he ran his hands over the marking. As he’d come to expect, there were no loose stones of disguised key holes. Turning his attention to the symbol itself, he studied the lines—thin and straight—that formed the shapes. It was, again, simplistic yet perplexing. Then he spotted something telling. A small pair of lines bisecting the longer ones, nearly three-fourths of the way down their lengths. The interwoven lines formed what appeared to be a crude representation of daggers, and a semicircle was set etched into the background.

  The angular, painted designs that graced the majority of the door’s face caused little confusion as to the path that would ensue should he choose to enter the trial. A blade of some sort would be key to his ingress into the chamber beyond. He leaned down, reaching for the new dagger he’d hidden in his boot, yet his hand paused before it reached the concealed handle of the blade. Steel would do nothing against the stone save for pitting the metal, or worse. The reminder of the searing agony from the door that had granted him the Voice would be forever burned into his memory. Switching hands, he withdrew the feather he’d collected from Mother Raven’s departure from the Raven’s Court.

  The Brand of the Avowal had granted an increase in the length of time he was permitted to part from the Shadows Shroud’s presence. Mimicking the raven had granted him the Voice. Each of those doors had a distinct spot where he would access the test. He stepped back while idly twisting the stall of the feather between his thumb and forefinger.

  As he considered the feather and its similarities to a blade, he decided this would be the key. Blades were good for two things: slashing and stabbing. With a swipe of his hand, he slashed the end of the feather across the markings on the door. As if holding a blade, facing the withering power of the sentinels, his arm rebounded upon impact. A painful shock reverberated up his arm . Somehow, despite its fragility and scant weight, the sound of the feather colliding with the door was deafening, echoing though the Roost. Pieces of the soft feather shattered like brittle metal, falling nosily to the floor.

  Over his shoulder, a lone raven glared at him as it extinguished the flames in its pool before circling out of sight in the darkened, lofty heights above.

  Slashing was clearly not the solution. Risens hastened back to his satchel, extracting another feather from his stash, now down to one. Returning to the door, he glowered at the stone facade and considered his next move. The slash had proven flawed, leaving only the stab left to follow.

  The question was, where?

  Scouring the details of the panel, his eyes paused as he reached the symbol etched into its face. In the middle of the entwined lines, there was only one section in the middle where they crossed, no wider than the tip of a blade.

  It was worth a try.

  Holding the feather in his fist, careful not to crush the delicate barbs, he stabbed the rounded stalk into the center of the design.