“Duels have concluded.” Center Dane stands and clenches his fist, closing the cracks in the arena ground with a puff of dust clouding the air between us.

  The murky dungeon air reeks of our own blood, and the stone walls vibrate with high magic, reminding us of who’s in control.

  Tonight was a massacre. Forced to stab and slash our own house kin, for what?

  How many had to die so I could be awakened?

  Remembering the names of the dead is something I made a point to do since I was a kid in Kavoh. Our house mother assured we would get no bullet points in the tomes of lineage, so I took it upon myself to make one in my head. Regardless of her harsh words, House Mother mourned the three siblings lost untimely and shed tears for every one marched from our house—including my brother Kane. It’s only here, in the Sept, where I see a true disregard for life.

  Impaled, burned, and forgotten. The act of spilling tempered blood is celebrated for the victor’s chance of unveiling the warring dark. We are just sacrifices for some war-hungry power. How dare the Danes claim not to be our enemy?

  Still, there’s relief… because the few I care for survived.

  I’m standing with a smirk and one arm around my closest friend.

  “Can’t believe you defeated an attuned sibling,” I whisper.

  “Can’t believe you are an attuned sibling.” Layla smacks my chest, and I swear she looks me up and down. She’s only ever looked at my brother like that. I shake it off, as she seems too… weird.

  Truth is… she’d still crush me in bed.

  “Look, I can hit you now without breaking you into little pieces,” she goes on.

  We chuckle for a moment, then she turns serious. “Thought you died, Hale.”

  “Me too.” I bite my lip, remembering the numbness and blood leaking down my chest. “Don’t think I didn’t see you tearing up for me when I came back to life.”

  She hits me again. “Not a word.”

  I pretend to zip my lips. Now that I’m of non-wimpy stature, and a formidable height, I notice everyone looking at me differently. Even Layla’s hand lingers on my chest for a second too long.

  “What does it feel like to be bonded?” she asks.

  I focus on the dragon flapping his gigantic wing as he flies in my psyche. “It feels—”

  “Awakened, step forward!” the Dane growls, trying to contain his excitement.

  “Guess it’ll have to wait.” I wink.

  Broggen and I walk down opposite sides of the victory dais and stand side by side, ready to be judged. My attunement is roaring to life again now that he’s next to me, riling anxiety. It’s like an invisible electricity field zapping my arms.

  One glance to my left shows him struggling to stand without his sword. That crooked bond is really doing a number on him. I can understand why he’s angry at his house father, honestly. Then again, is this all just chance?

  “Pay attention, mortal,” Boeru huffs. “We must understand our connection if we are to one day contend with these high-magic users.”

  “Right.” I clench my jaw and face forward.

  “Your journey to second house begins now. All victorious will ascend to tier one of Miria. But not all of you will survive the journey.”

  Chatter breaks out behind me. Didn’t we already fight for our lives? What the hell?

  The fear subsides quickly, however. A prospect of a new world tickles all the right places of my brain. I want to know more about this awakening—about how Boeru and I can grow strong together. Give me reliable mythos, or at least a key that decodes all the falsities in the tomes I’ve already read.

  As my excitement grows, so too does the essence cycling my forearms.

  My brothers and sisters didn’t die for nothing.

  I’ll come back and free the exiled. I’ll free you, Jurso, from forced ignorance and black skies…

  “Tier one of Miria. Pfah.” A victorious sibling spits on the stone floor behind me. “How did we get stuck in these pits? You owe us answers!”

  “The answers will come. Understand that haste is a priority now that we have a cracked Seal. The other groups must be marched down immediately to find their own awakenings.”

  “We don’t care about the other groups. You forced us to kill our brothers and sisters,” the brazen woman continues. “Tell us how we got here, Master Dane. Where the sky is fake and teachings are untrue. Is this hell?”

  Preach, sister.

  The Danes whisper words masked by magic to one another, echoes of unintelligible sentences bouncing around the walls. The victorious and the shameful both become riled behind me. An answer is in order.

  “You are currently in the sub-tier of Miria, and must climb your way out,” another Dane says. “Delivered at birth, you were all groomed for this very moment. To tempt the Seal before you.” She spreads her arms.

  Delivered by who? My real parents?

  Kane, if you’re somewhere in an upper tier, find me, brother.

  Center Dane holds his hands up for silence. “The shameful will climb from their pit and march to exile, never to be seen again—”

  Dammit. Jurso…

  “But first, the awakened will grant spirit marks to their chosen.”

  Huh?

  “Awakened—Broggen Lor’fyre and Haledyn Winbridge—tap into the warring dark centered within you. If your bond allows it, the mark may be transferred to a selection of tempered blood, unifying you in the trials to come.”

  My heart leaps in my chest.

  “Yes,” Boeru hisses. “It is the same as in the afterlife. My spirit can be bolstered to those marked.”

  “Like an aura?” I ask.

  “Precisely.”

  I feel the dragon soaring through my entire body, trying to evoke something.

  “Though I do not know how to activate it within you, my spirit already maximized your pathetically weak vessel. It seems I am at my limit.”

  “You’re a dragon spirit, for gods’ sake. The legendary Torn Wing. Just turn into a giant shadow again and press your mark onto the people I point at.”

  “It is not that simple. You are in control of this process, it seems. That’s why it proves difficult to get anything accomplished in here. I damned myself to a mortal prison!”

  I sigh at Boeru’s frustration.

  “Request assistance from the Danes. Do tell them, if they fail to provide aid, I will rip their heads off and store them in my chambers as souvenirs if they’re ever to cross into my realm.”

  “Now who’s acting up?” I huff.

  “Awakened. Hold out your dominant arms.”

  Broggen and I glance at one another, then do as we’re told. His quivers like a leaf.

  “Focus your bonded spirit to that location, and will it to the surface of your skin.”

  Both of us stand there like idiots, glancing at one another to see if either of us progress. His unhinged bond sends waves of shadowy essence bouncing all over his forearm, but it looks like it’s hurting him more than anything.

  “Alright, Boeru, I feel you flying around in my right arm. Lift to the surface.”

  The dragon huffs, the heat of his breath warming my skin.

  “Broggen Lor’fyre,” the center Dane’s unmistakable voice jars me out of concentration. “You must take the reins and command your bond. Stabilize it.” His eyes glow bright as he sends a wind whip circling Broggen’s arm, holding it in place. For the first time, I notice the Dane using a high magic other than wind. Golden flakes whirl around Broggen’s skin, reminding me of Renesta’s story about her house father.

  Broggen grits his teeth as the riled spirit tames within him—dark essence falling back into his skin. Then, a foreign mark lifts to the surface, flashing molten orange before cooling to black like a tattoo. Harsh brushstroke lines form into an angry mask with a spear through it.

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  “Mark of the Storm Lance,” Boeru seethes. “My enemies chase me even into mortality.”

  “Haledyn Winbridge. You must work with your bond to evoke strength. Empower it.” Center Dane sends a whip to pull my arm straighter than it is, before unleashing those same golden flakes from the wisps of his wind, syphoning into my skin.

  My vision tunnels as soon as it touches.

  I’m sucked into a vacuum. Immense pressure consumes me. I’m somewhere else… flying through the afterlife with my roost in formation behind me. Flames gurgle through my esophagus like Arkitus… only now, I can control them. My throat is built to handle scorching temperatures, and I can exhale on a whim to burn my enemies if I so choose.

  I’m soaring to battle hundreds of miles in the air, in a twilight sky. I’m… a god.

  When I blink back to the present, a mark flashes molten on my skin, tracing a brushstroke torn-winged dragon.

  It’s hard to catch my breath, like I’ve been running miles unendingly.

  “Boeru,” I say in my head.

  “We merged for an instant. Perhaps that is the key,” he snarls, thrashing his head in dismay.

  “What’s the problem?” I ask.

  “High-magic accelerants. They leave a wretched taste in my mouth.”

  “Now, choose your blood to unify and mark. Haledyn, Dragonborn. Proceed first.”

  My heart thunders in my ears. The mark on my arm sizzles with power as I turn to face my siblings. How many can I choose?

  Will it be one-for-one?

  My eyes lock on Renesta—those big emeralds staring back at me. Her lips, easy gaze… I’m drawn to her in more ways than one, but I have to control my urges. Think with your head.

  The truth is, she would be in high demand. Already attuned, honorable, takes life when she has to, and full of mystery I must unlock. The mark pulses as I nearly confirm the decision in my mind.

  Don’t be hasty, Hale. Your loyalty is first and foremost to your guard—Layla.

  My eyes switch to hers. Even if she has no warring dark inside her, she defeated an attuned sibling. Strength without magic should be revered. I feel Broggen’s unhinged gaze burning a hole in my head. He’s watching me carefully.

  Even though I should pick Layla first, there’s no way Broggen would choose her, right? Which means I can choose her second.

  If there even is a second.

  “Boeru. How many do you think you can hold?”

  “Choose one and I will be able to tell you. I have no inkling how much a mark will deplete me in this mortal vessel.”

  My brow furrows as I consider the pit of shame. Jurso. I can’t leave him to rot for the rest of his days. He has to come with me. We’ll learn of this new world together.

  Would he even be able to survive a climb to wherever the hell these second houses are?

  In my old body, I wouldn’t have.

  Would I be sentencing him to death if I choose him?

  As I turn my head to the floor, I come to my senses. Broggen is intelligent. He remembered my name and my house, and knows full well Layla and I share a deep connection. I literally shouted at the Danes for her. Hm. I shouted for Jurso too.

  Will he sabotage me and pick whoever I do not? Or will he only seek power?

  Can’t read him yet.

  Still, the answer is clear.

  “Guide and guard.” I smirk at Layla. “I choose you.” I point at her, and a stream of blue dragon flame billows from my finger and swirls around her arm, making everyone back up. My eyes widen as I experience an instant of that same vision—flying with my roost. Only this time, Layla is among them.

  Her gentle blue eyes become flecked with gold, until the flames cool, revealing a matching mark on her arm. We smirk at each other, leaving a weakness in my chest. Not sure if it’s kinship or something else, but one thing is for sure—my bond has been extended.

  “Broggen, Riderborn, make your selection.”

  My heart skips when his eyes lock onto Renesta’s. Instant regret and jealousy fuels my veins. I’ve never experienced emotion like this so heavily. It scares me that it’s not just the dragon spirit causing it, but this new body.

  Catching a glimpse of myself in the reflective dais ledge, I know I’m more handsome now, and I’m surely stronger. Two-toned black-and-brown hair shimmers with life, and my face is more chiseled than just hours ago. Considering myself an option to court women is something I never would’ve dreamed. It’s dangerous… and is affecting my normally logical judgement.

  Boeru snickers in my ear whenever my heart rate increases. Bastard knows what I’m thinking.

  Don’t choose her. I grit my teeth.

  Broggen turns to the man still wounded from Layla’s blade—Tristian Siegfried—leaving an internal sigh of relief. He’s someone I can let go. Pick him, Broggen, please.

  He then paces away from the victory dais, leaving everyone confused. His arm wrapped in white flame lingers from his mark. Riderborn—is that what Noctus is? What other bonds can the warring dark evoke?

  Broggen hobbles to the pit of shame as if being pulled by Noctus’ spirit. He crouches, yanking a brute by the hair to better inspect him.

  A part of me wonders what Noctus is spilling in his ear.

  Gods… if he assembles a team of pure brutes, he’d be unstoppable physically. What’s he hunting for in a pit of shame? Does tempered blood change when experiencing defeat like this?

  “Noctus prefers to mold from scratch,” Boeru says. “A tattered spirit is easier to build up than a confident one.”

  “Tell me more about him,” I speak in my mind while never taking my gaze off Broggen. The way he yanks at their hair, inspecting their necks, it’s almost feral.

  “Legion commander of wyverns. He’s battle-hungry, and is tossed into the fray whenever able. He is slippery and powerful.”

  “Which is why he hasn’t been incinerated by you?” I ask.

  “Hmph,” he huffs. “The name of the game in the warring dark is capture, mortal. There is no further death in the afterlife. But yes, incineration does slow them down. We must control key pieces in our war. He is among them. As I am for him.”

  “I see.”

  “Which is why I chase Elden magic. To make true, transformative change.” Boeru slithers to my other shoulder.

  I’m about to ask the dragon a hundred more questions, but Broggen straightens and hobbles back toward the victory dais.

  “You,” he says confidently, shooting a spear of white flame straight into Tristian. It engulfs his leg for an instant, where the same speared-mask tattoo etches into his calf. “Tristian Siegfried of House Rhylock. Serve as my hand in the trials to come. Do you accept?”

  Tristian appears ecstatic to be chosen. Makes me think all he cares about is power, even knowing Broggen’s source is completely unstable.

  “Haledyn Dragonborn, do you have the strength to choose another?” Center Dane seems intrigued at the ask.

  “Go ahead, mortal,” Boeru’s voice strains. “Take the one who has been lurking in my stables.”

  “Don’t have to tell me twice.” I point to Renesta and ignite a second billow of blue flame that engulfs her arm. “Do you accept my mark, Renesta Fowler of House Sivus?”

  I eye her, waiting for Boeru to finish tattooing himself into her arm.

  “Yes.” A shadow of a smile breaks from her lips.

  Electricity jolts through my veins. Just hours ago this woman would never have regarded me as anything but a sickly orphan. Now our bond may one day yield an aura.

  A splash of guilt suddenly washes over me like a bucket of ice water.

  Jurso’s just standing there, in his embarrassing cutout in the stone, head tilted dejectedly to the floor. Surely he knows my strategy, and that I wouldn’t leave him to rot. Right?

  When the Danes announce Broggen’s turn again, he limps over to the first brute he inspected previously in the pit of shame and points at her. “Arah Willcross of House Rhylock, come to my side.”

  With two strong hands pressed flat on the stone floor, she lifts herself out of the hole and struts over to him. Dark eyes, face lathered with scars, and dreadlocks cascading down her back like a waterfall, she commands the space.

  Her duel was one of the most entertaining to watch—she only lost because of a misstep, snapping her ankle in a crack and suffering a dagger to the breast as a result. All that looks to be behind her now, though. Guess there’s a healing aura around the pit of shame too. It’s weird to see mortal wounds clot so quickly. Feels like a week has gone by since all the fighting because of it.

  The white flame shoots from Broggen’s arm—tattooing Arah’s exposed belly—making the brute more intimidating than she already is.

  I don’t care, though. Kind eyes or not, Layla would rip that woman in half if it came down to it.

  “Haledyn Dragonborn—”

  It’s going to take a while to get used to that title. Glancing at the brutes on the victory dais, it’d be wise to choose one with the trials to come. We’re going to need strength one way or the other, now that all the attuned siblings have been chosen. But I’m going to wager two inquisitor heads is endlessly more valuable than one. Brains over brawn.

  I step to the pit of shame—right over my newest friend—and crouch down to lend him my arm. A wrap of blue fire engulfs us both for an instant as I pull him out of his hole.

  “You up for a climb, Jurs?” I grin at him, and he grins back.

  “Where’s my new body?” He slaps my arm once he’s on level ground, then glances at the mark forming on his right shoulder.

  “At least now you can have all the preece stones I’ve been hiding.” I pat his back, then bend to whisper in his ear, “Glad we both made it.”

  “Me too. Thought you were a goner back there.” He nods toward the arena. “A second chance from the gods. Let’s crack this new world open.”

  “We have to get there first.”

  “Broggen Riderborn—”

  His next choice makes my chest cave in. I don’t know whether it’s trauma or what, but hearing Grondus’ name reignites how shamelessly he stabbed me in the chest. Doesn’t matter that he’s subdued from losing—he’s still a cold murderer.

  “Boeru, how you holding up there?”

  The dragon’s breath labors.

  “Should we call it?” I ask.

  “No! We need soldiers if we’re to succeed in progressing. I feel like a hatchling again, stuck in these puny lungs.”

  “You should’ve seen me before I awakened you.”

  “I did. It was pathetic.”

  “Haledyn, Dragonborn. Do you still have markings left in you?” Center Dane tilts his head slightly.

  I’m hesitant to move, but Boeru shouting “Choose!” wakes me right up. There are others from my house in the pit of shame, but none of them were really that curious or zealous back home. Nor did we get along very well. Whether it was jealousy of Kane, or Layla, or boredom from hearing me hypothesize about mythos, we never really got on. Still, guilt lingers, since I have the power to pull them out of exile.

  It can’t be helped.

  Shifting back to the victory dais, I analyze those waiting. I should form a balanced group, one of strength, attunement, and brawn. Even though she has the body of one, I don’t consider Layla a brute. So why not get a real spicer on my side? Just one.

  I scan the lot of them, then glance at Broggen, who seems to be focused on one brute in particular—Rogoshel. Having both Grondus and Rogo in his budding aura would be an awful combination.

  “You. Jerkoff.” I nod at Rogo.

  He snarls with an ear-to-ear smile, folding his arms.

  “How about me and Layla look the other way about you rooting for us to die as we try to figure this crazy journey out together?” I walk up to the dais. “We need a little spice in… whatever this is.”

  He’s just staring back with a smug expression.

  “I’ve known you a long time, Rogo. You talk a lot of shit, but you’ve also defended our house on more than one occasion. Join us.” I ignite my mark in blue flame. “Or go with the riderborn of another house.”

  “I like this new side of you, Haledyn.” He smiles wide. “As much fun as it’d be to crush you on the other side, I think I’ll enjoy pummeling Grondus more. I’ll accept your mark.”

  Once the deed is done, Boeru’s exhaustion transfers unto me. My new muscles feel weakened with atrophy, but that’s okay. Whatever we’re doing here, it’s good. Mythos spoke to expanded auras in a few texts, and that’s what I feel we’ll eventually be working toward here.

  Broggen extracts a lanky warrior from the pit, who was bested by a massive brute so spiced out he can barely form a sentence. Is he offering redemption? Sure feels that way. His picks are all lean or buff, all physical.

  I know what he’s doing… besides abiding to Noctus… he’s ensuring that all the brainwork is centralized in his control. I wonder if that’s what they teach in House Valor. To rule.

  “Haledyn Dragonborn,” the center Dane beckons me with utmost curiosity.

  I’m about to shake my head no, considering I can feel every vein straining to pump blood through me right now.

  “Haledyn,” a woman’s voice calls from behind me.

  I turn to the tiny one who stood next to me on the dais. Misty.

  “Take me, too. I know I’m small, but I’ll rip and claw my way out of this dank ass prison. Maybe I’ll even get to take a stab at whatever sorry excuse for parents left us down here. Have a feeling there’s a better shot if I do it with a dragon’s mark on my arm.”

  I barely have the energy to tell her no.

  “Take her,” Boeru strains.

  “You’re depleted. We both are,” I argue.

  “Her spirit is thrice any of yours. I want her in my aura.”

  “Damn, Torn Wing. You really have a soft spot for the weak, don’t you?”

  He huffs.