Regilon sat alone, trapped in a dome of ice. The hound that had chased him across the plains had transformed into a human and stood behind the ice dome. She had been searching for a weak point to break through and kill him, but she was unable to find one.

  “It is my nature to kill everyone I meet,” she said. “It is my nature.” She introduced herself as Gemma and explained that she had grown up worshipping the Blood Storm. To her, Regilon was a hero, and she found it an honour to be his executioner. The more she spoke, the better he understood her. She was just a girl, a young girl struck by a horrid curse. Despite his years of knowledge, he did not understand what she was.

  "Please, come out so I may kill you,” Gemma insisted. “I cannot stay here much longer.” It was the most welcome news Regilon had received so far. He waited and waited until Gemma finally left him alone.

  He collapsed onto the hard ground. At first, he thought it was fatigue, but soon he realized he was not recovering. His body was falling apart. A gash in his belly pumped out litres of blood. His collarbone was fractured, courtesy of the hound, and he had twisted his ankle fleeing Blackwood. Rheina knew why he was still alive. As he lay on his back, he placed a hand on his wound and closed his eyes, breathing through his mouth.

  “I think it’s time I admitted it,” he said to his inner self. “I’m a weak man.”

  When Reggie was at Se Fina, he had been average when his father wanted him to be excellent. His father would get upset and beat his mother. Reggie did his best at all times, but once in a while, he would slip up. He would sleep at night, wondering what his father would do. It got so bad that his mother once bled out a Regal. That angered his father, and he nearly killed her that day.

  You see, his father was not cruel to Reggie. Regis never touched his son. He once said ascenders trained hard not to protect themselves—there was nothing anyone could do to harm them—but they were trained to protect the ones they loved, like his mother. Reggie understood this. He swore to himself that he would make his father so proud that his father would never dream of hurting his mother again. And he did, for months, until one night his mother came to his room and shook him awake. She said they were leaving Henrikia for good. They would never see or suffer his father’s wrath again. He did not understand at first, until she told him the truth: his father had never stopped punishing her.

  Regilon dug his fingernails into the dirt. The soil between his fingers was coarse and cursed. His hands were filthy. He could never get them clean again. This was his deathbed.

  Whatever his father had done to him was nothing compared to what Genevie had inflicted. Trapped and alone in the Dark World, Regilon discovered the true meaning of fear. White, bright eyes surrounded him in that darkness. He fought creatures for what felt like days, fending off one attacker after another with nothing but flame—until he met his end.

  Markus. Regilon recognized that face from years past. He was no longer human, but it was him. He was an earthen general for the Black Army, one Regilon had personally slaughtered. Regilon remembered the pain the beast had inflicted on him and nothing else. He did not remember how he escaped the Dark World, though.

  The world had changed upon his return. The war was drawing to an end, with rhen victory on the horizon. His father was dead, murdered by Genevie. He went home to an empty room.

  Gerard Gallant was one of the few who had stayed loyal to Henrikia to the end, and he was furious. Genevie had to pay for her crime, and he was not about to let her get away so easily. Genevie was carrying his child. He would drag her back to the shores of Henrikia.

  They found the ship and found Genevie on board. She was cornered. Once she opened the portal to the Dark World, Regilon froze. He couldn’t go back to that place. The sorceress and her monsters terrified him. He stood there and watched as Genevie shoved Gerard into the Dark World while he turned and fled. Gerard’s screams reached him across the sea. His son, Tenrad, never forgave Reggie for Gerard’s death.

  I stand when I must run, and I run when I must stand.

  Motorcycles approached from behind—three or more. Through the frosted walls of his ice dome, headlights shone. Men surrounded the structure: two on his left and three spread across on the right. They conversed in inaudible English. The uptick in dialogue hinted at growing curiosity. Wherever they’d been headed—most likely Blackwood—was no longer a priority. They tapped at the ice dome, knocking a few times. One pressed his face against the wall, hoping for a glimpse of what lay within.

  “Bet my life we’ve got a good one in there,” one said. “We should blow it up.”

  “No, too messy.”

  “You’re afraid.” Someone got shoved. The men laughed.

  “I’m not afraid,” the person defended himself, annoyed. “I’m being reasonable, that’s all.”

  “Who knows? Might be nothing at all.”

  “Who do you think it is?”

  “The Blood Storm, who else? When I saw those fires coming out of the forest, I knew it had to be him.”

  “We can’t just leave now, can we? If the Blood Storm is in there…”

  “Then we’re dead men walking. Better leave now.”

  “Shut up. We have him cornered. I bet Franka’s given him a good beating. He must have fled and hid in here.”

  A knuckle knocked on the ice dome. “Never had a better chance than now.”

  “Stand back.”

  They retreated as one of them loaded a plasma gun. The bolt struck the ice wall, cracking the surface a few notches above.

  “Lock it,” one said to the other.

  The plasma gun fired a prolonged round of energy, focused on the same spot. The ice wall leaked until the beam pierced the dome, illuminating Regilon’s hideout for a moment. They cheered, crowding around the hole for a better look. Regilon did not glance back. As far as he was concerned, he was already dead. From their chatter, it seemed the Bannermen agreed—some more convinced than others.

  “Why don’t we blow him to bits, just in case he’s not properly dead yet?”

  “Wouldn’t want to do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Who’s going to believe us? Blow him to bits and it could have been any other rhen. We have him as we want him. A nice clean cut on his throat should put any doubt to rest.”

  “Or we stake him in the heart.”

  “He’s not a vampire.”

  “How sure are we? He got eyes as red as blood.”

  Cut his throat, stake him in the heart—they could do whatever they wanted. He was dead, and he did not care.

  Their plasma gun reloaded and struck a section of ice much lower to the ground. They broke through. Ice splattered against Regilon’s cold feet. Not that he could see it, but his ears told him one Bannerman was grinding a piece of steel between his teeth. A pair of knees crawled along the gravel, edging closer to the hole in the wall. These people were serious about killing him. Hm.

  Regilon opened his eyes and found the mercenary exactly where he expected him. The Bannerman’s head protruded through the hole in the dome. He shouted, “He no ded yer!”

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  “What?” the others yelled back.

  “Ay say he nor dead yer!”

  An ice sheet slid down from above, slicing through the dome and severing his head, concealing the hole. The corpse’s head rolled to a stop near Regilon. The blade remained between its teeth, the eyes wide with horror.

  Pandemonium erupted behind the dome. These young rebels were reactionaries, not strategists. Rather than thinking, they pulled out their plasma guns and fired at the dome from all angles, screaming their dead friend’s name.

  “We’ll kill you!”

  “You bastard!”

  “I swear to God, we’ll kill you for this!”

  Regilon had most likely killed their grandfathers in war once upon a time. Yet here they were, having learned nothing. The weakened ascender pulled himself together, sliding down to sit against the wall. One spell had set back five hours of healing. With shaky hands, he picked up the corpse’s head.

  “I’m such a coward,” he said to the head. “I ran away again. This time, I ran away from death.”

  The ice shattered in multiple places at once. Before the Bannermen could reach the hole, it sealed itself. Regilon coughed blood, the liquid running down his chin. The markings on his body refused to fade. During war, he had had space to rest and recover; his father would never have let him push this close to his limits. Now, he craved even an ounce of astaphite to escape this hell.

  Cracks formed along the dome, splitting upwards and around. Guns reloaded and fired in unison at four points. They would break through soon—and this time, kill him. Regilon closed his eyes, letting his ears take over. Another motorcycle approached from the north, but there was something else—a presence he could not perceive with his senses but from his heart.

  The demon had returned.

  All at once, the firing ceased. The Bannermen raced to their motorcycles and fled, abandoning their quest for vengeance. Regilon’s hands fumbled over the ice, pushing at the specks of magic in his blood in a desperate attempt to fortify the dome.

  A girl screamed as the motorcycle’s sound faded into silence. The ice walls strained; a sneeze from a fly could have shattered them. He waited, clutching the Bannerman’s head, hoping the beast would not provoke him as she had the first time.

  He was wrong.

  Following the groans of a whimpering girl, two figures appeared behind the ice wall. A slender young woman stood with a hand on her hip, gripping a man by the collar. This was the human form of the beast—Gemma, as she had introduced herself the first time they spoke.

  “I did not intend to return,” she said. “My catch led me straight to you, and here you are, still alive. I suppose fate decrees that I must kill you after all.”

  “You can talk?” the victim asked. “Gemma… God, why are you doing this to us?”

  “Reggie,” said Gemma, ignoring the child. “You have a choice. Come out and face me, or I will do to this girl what I just did to her parents.”

  He hadn’t come to save Blackwood after all. All he wanted was to meet his lost relative. The demon liked games. She could breach his barrier anytime, yet she chose to taunt him instead. He needed more time—time to escape before she brought her next victim.

  “Or what do you think?” he murmured to the Bannerman’s head. The corpse seemed to whisper secrets of the demon. She was out of Blackwood; the playing field had shifted. He was vulnerable, yes—but so was she. One slash across her throat, a stake in her heart, and she would be finished. He could be a hero to the girl who was not even his.

  “Rhen Regal?” the child cried. “Please, I don’t want to die.”

  “Neither do I,” Regilon murmured. Still, he pulled the blade from the corpse’s teeth and pressed his back against the ice wall, forcing himself upright. He released the spell holding the dome together, and it withered away, letting the evening light spill across him.

  The girl in Gemma’s grip was Hanna. For some reason, just knowing it made him smile faintly. Gemma’s golden-brown eyes flickered hungrily. She released Hanna and charged at Regilon. He extended an arm, letting the blade drop, and Gemma pounced, sending them both crashing down.

  She landed on him, teeth bared and nails scraping, swinging down. Hanna screamed, and Gemma turned toward her—but it was too late. The earthen girl had already sunk the blade deep into Gemma’s ribs. Mortified, Gemma flailed for Hanna, who darted away.

  Pain hit the demon differently outside Blackwood. Gemma scrambled off Regilon, clutching the wound, and limped backward, constantly checking for his approach. Regilon could not pursue her—not yet. His ears rang with alarm.

  Hanna stopped watching Gemma retreat and rushed to Regilon’s side.

  “Rhen Regal,” she said. “Please, we have to go. Get up.”

  Regilon shook his head, trying to free himself. “It’s pointless,” he said. “There are Bannermen south of here. We’ll meet them on the road.”

  “Then let’s head west.”

  “There is nothing west.”

  “We’ll go east, then.”

  “There is nothing east.”

  “Please, get up. Help me reach Maplewood’s Ring. If we get there by morning, the portal will open for us.”

  “I told you—the Bannermen are on the road.”

  “That’s why you have to come with me. Please, Rhen Regal, we need you. You’re supposed to be a Gaverian. You’re the Blood Storm, for Rheina’s sake. Please, I’ll carry you if I have to. I’ll help you fight. I have a plasma gun and a motorcycle. All I want is for you to be there.”

  “Fine,” he said.

  The girl tried to lift him, but he wouldn’t move, so she went around and dragged him by his arms. She struggled, but it was far from enough. Then she had a better idea: she grabbed the dead Bannerman’s motorcycle and brought it closer. She rolled Regilon onto his side, pulled off his coat, and heaved him as best she could, helping him stand upright. Hanna sat him on the motorcycle, tied their coats around both their waists, and rested his head on her shoulder. Regilon closed his eyes for a brief nap as they rode through the cursed land.

  The road was rough, and Hanna’s shoulder was bony. Regilon felt nauseous and dizzy, his hair whipping into his face. When will this suffering end? How long will life torment me?

  Then he remembered something. “Where is the homing device I left you?”

  “What?” she yelled over the wind. His wounds made it impossible to shout. Whatever had happened to the device was irrelevant now. The firefly had probably crashed, and Victor was likely dead at the hands of the night creatures.

  “What did you say, Rhen Regal? Do you want us to stop?”

  His eyes snapped open. “Head down!”

  Plasma bolts streaked at them from behind ragged stones. Regilon ducked, and they crashed to the ground. He tore himself from the girl, slammed his palm against the stones, and a spiral of wind lifted dust and dirt into the air. Shots fired, tearing through the dirt around them. Hanna fumbled to pull her plasma gun from the pouch on the bike. Regilon placed a hand on her. Blood seeped from a fresh cut on her brown skin, and she had bitten her tongue. She struggled to breathe. Stressed. Very stressed.

  He wasn’t. Counting the angles from which the shots came, he concluded there were no more than six attackers.

  “I want to help,” the girl said.

  “You will. I just need to figure out how.”

  He coughed into his palm, and the wind died down. Regilon scanned as far as his eyes could see. The village of Maplewood was closer than he thought.

  “You’re not normal,” he said to the girl, patting her on the head. “I like that.”

  He snapped his fingers, and the winds raged once more. The shooting hadn’t stopped, but it was no longer a problem. On his signal, they crouched through the dust storm, the girl sticking close behind.

  Once they hit solid rock, he lifted a finger, and they halted. He pointed downward, and she fell onto her belly, aiming her gun at the Bannerman on the ledge below. On his count, she shot him through the head.

  Regilon jumped down, grabbing the man before he fell. At the street’s edge, he charged toward two others firing at him. He flung the body across, smashing it into them. He dashed forward, snapping their necks cleanly, grabbed their guns, and fired thrice in the wrong direction. The remaining three focused on the stray shots. He signalled Hanna, and she was beside him instantly.

  Regilon pointed at a Bannerman lying on his belly, firing at the wrong target. “Shoot him,” he ordered. “But on my watch.”

  “He’s too far.”

  “Get closer.”

  Suppressing a cough, Regilon concealed his mouth with the back of his hand. He darted forward again, stumbling and vomiting blood and saliva. The mercenaries shouted and pulled out blades, slashing at him. Regilon stepped back, grabbed the first man, and pulled him close. He crafted an ice thread, spliced the man’s head off, grabbed the head, and slammed it through the second man’s face. The second fell, tackling Regilon as well. They wrestled for weapons. Regilon seized the severed head and pounded it through the man’s skull.

  His ears twitched. He turned just in time to see the last mercenary aiming at Hanna. He flung the skull—it slammed into the Bannerman, throwing him off balance—and Hanna shot him in the gut.

  Two giant pillars, covered in glowing violet triangle stood before them. Between them floated a Ring. Maplewood’s trees formed a border around the town, their branches crisscrossing overhead like a canopy. The town was small, filled with modest buildings and hardly any people. He counted them: two. He and Hanna.

  She broke into a small home and laid him on the sofa. Hanna threw the smudged green coat over Regilon’s trembling shoulders, then sat on the floor beside him, knees raised, resting her head on them.

  “Why don’t you find a bed and get some rest?” he asked. Hanna shook her head. “You’re scared the Bannermen will find us. Or Gemma.” She didn’t respond. “You killed someone today.”

  “I’ve killed before,” she said. “I don’t care what I have to do… to get what I want.”

  Regilon closed his eyes and drifted off. “What if you had died?”

  “If I’m scared to die, then I care more about myself than about what I want. And if that is true, then I don’t deserve to succeed.”

  Such a strange young woman.

  The sun rose without incident. Regilon and Hanna Shepherd were still alive. She helped him up, telling him they needed to hurry if they wanted to make it through the portal. Together, they waited under the sun, each with aching hearts. When the Ring hummed, their spirits roused. She wiped her tears at the sight of the portal to the Third. They crossed but did not let go of each other.

  Officers arrived within minutes. They recognized Regilon instantly. Paramedics followed, bringing more officers with them.

  “Jeromy,” Hanna said once the officers had secured Reggie. “He’s who I want.”

  Regilon asked, “Where are you taking her?”

  “We have health centres right here on the Farm, Sir.”

  “No, she comes with us,” he said. The officers and medics grunted in shock. “She comes with us. Attend to her in the city. She’s a survivor of Blackwood… and a hero.”