Lyra’s knuckles tightened on her spear, trying to hold back the atavistic shiver running down her spine. Her mother—when they’d hunted together—had told her: Never show fear in front of a predator.

  And she was facing down a predator. Margrave Rüdiger von Erlenwald, the dark archwizard of the Crusade.

  He hovered in the air above them, his ludicrously decorated hat in one hand, his coat of bone and silver and heavy leather flapping in the wind.

  "But the wave," Caden murmured beside her. "It killed all the others. How did he—?"

  Lyra stamped the butt of her spear into the ground. "He must be weakened. We can take him."

  Suddenly, she was hit with a wave of force. Petrov flew back as the air shimmered, and all of them were pulled away a split second before another of the giant rocks crashed where they’d just stood.

  The Margrave spun his hat around his finger and placed the tricorn on his balding scalp.

  "Well," he drawled, his voice louder than it had any right to be, "nice reflexes, Petrov. A spell? No. Must be an ability, right?"

  Petrov growled. For a split second, he glanced at the wooden creature that had killed his brother and his party. Refocusing, he lifted into the air and threw a handful of glimmering particles at the man.

  Rüdiger dodged with graceful ease.

  For a second, he seemed to freeze and the air distorted around him—then shot straight up, just in time to dodge the particles. They detonated behind him, throwing him forward—but the blue shimmer of his defensive spell let him use it for propulsion. He shot forward like a missile.

  Lucien murmured an invocation.

  Flame lances streaked out, cracking through the air toward the man.

  Lyra’s spear snapped longer with a shimmer of magic—ten, then twenty paces—until it skewered toward the Archmagister’s leg.

  He didn’t even seem to notice as it pierced his calf.

  Then he was on Petrov.

  When the Archmagister’s hands glowed—one strike hit.

  The shimmer of Petrov’s defensive barrier flared, and he tried to jump back as the Archmagister broke through it.

  He was their highest-level member. Level 25.

  The Archmagister must be the same level now. That thought ran through Lyra’s mind as she retracted the spear and used the skill again, all while sprinting toward the aerial duel—knowing it would be over before she arrived.

  Her heart hammered in her chest.

  We can do it. We can—

  Petrov flung his hand into the incoming fist of Rüdiger.

  The fist detonated in an explosion of gore that left only a stump behind.

  Several drops of blood hit Lyra in the face.

  Something wet and hot struck her cheek—flesh. His flesh. She gagged but kept moving.

  Then the Archmagister punished him. He punched with his other hand—apparently not even noticing the loss of the first. Purple and green energy engulfed his remaining hand as it shot forward flat, like a blade, toward Petrov.

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  It impacted his throat. The fingers disappeared into it—in blood and gore.

  Petrov gurgled—then plummeted, and Lyra’s heart lurched as if she’d fallen with him.

  Caden screamed, his concentration breaking, his attack spell falling apart.

  A storm of energy washed over Lyra as she ground her teeth in fury and frustration.

  "Demiurges curse," she hissed. What is this monster?

  Lyra bit her tongue—forcefully, deliberately. Fight now. Grieve later.

  Her mother’s advice, back when she’d first become an adventurer. It had served her well. Petrov’s down. But he’s injured. Not dead.

  She swirled her spear and caught sight of Rüdiger’s stomach. Blood spilled forward. Glistening guts. Good.

  Lucien was engulfed in a halo of star-fire, the plasma torus expanding—spreading its radius toward the enemy.

  The whole battlefield had gone still—gatehouse, camp, undead and living alike—all eyes fixed on the impossible duel.

  Five against one. We got this.

  The Margrave glittered with blue light. He did something—an enhancement to his defensive spell.

  But Lucien had anticipated it.

  The furthest point of the elliptical flame loop detonated—overwhelming and, for the first time, engulfing the enemy’s defensive shield.

  The man screamed—No. He wasn’t screaming. He was howling.

  Howling with laughter.

  Lucien snarled and accelerated the spell—condensing the torus into a single, burning lens of plasma.

  Lyra saw something fall from the firestorm. Charred. Smoking. His leg. A distant part of her mind registered it. Her heart surged—they’d actually crippled him.

  She swung her spear wide—elongating the tip—and felt it hit resistance.

  Inside the firestorm, the laughter stopped. "One of you down," the man said in a dark, grim voice. "Four more to go."

  Against her will, Lyra shivered. Does he not understand what’s happening to him? Are the rumors true? Is he really insane?

  Lucien's spell sputtered as it ran out of energy. The scorched Archmagister hovered in the air, his tattered cloak falling away into ash. He stretched his arms out. One leg: burned to a stump. The other: still burning.

  Even his clothes turned to ash, leaving him burned, raw, and monstrous.

  Then: a bright white shimmer.

  A dozen strings of energy shot out from around him—arcing toward Lucien.

  The pyromancer tried to dodge. But his control over flight was never perfect.

  The beams converged. The same telekinetic evocation he’d used to hurl boulders—now turned on a man. The scope of it chilled her marrow.

  The field wrapped around Lucien, forming a bubble. It began to compress. He curled into a fetal position—his defensive barrier absorbing all the power it could from his abjuration core.

  Lyra stabbed again—impaling the Archmagister through the chest.

  But distantly, she saw that Maximilian was gone from her awareness. Readying his special attack. We got this—

  With a splintering sound, Lucien's barrier broke. And the pyromancer was compressed into a perfect sphere of blood. He shrieked as his body crumpled inward—flesh, bone, and flame compacted into a glistening sphere of blood the size of a large boulder.

  The Archmagister lowered his arms. The white light faded, and the blood splattered to the ground, leaving nothing but a pool of minced gore on dusty rocks. He smiled—a burned, rictus grin across his scarred face. "Second one down."

  Lyra choked on a silent scream as he bowed with mocking elegance. "Act one," he announced, "is concluded."

  The shimmer returned, crawling over his ruined frame—and in an eyeblink, every wound, every burn, every shredded muscle vanished. He stood reborn, as if the battle had never touched him.

  "Oh my god," Lyra whispered. "He has a restoration point."

  But then—she saw another shimmer.

  Maximilian—hurtled through the air. His two-handed hammer was drawn back. The spike gleamed with ready lethality.

  Screaming a full-throated battle cry, he closed the distance toward the Archmagister.

  Lyra had seen this strike before.

  "Die," she hissed through her teeth, jabbing her elongating spear again.

  With a single flick, a lens of flame erupted from one of the enemy’s hands—impaling Maximilian's illusion mid-air.

  Lyra smiled. Good. So he hasn’t—

  Then the man spun, thrusting both hands forward.

  Lyra screamed—

  Just as the real Maximilian did.

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