Chapter 3

  To his credit, William mostly listened. His attention fixed on the battle at the school, their bonded, and how three teenagers had survived the wastelands.

  River told what he could, truth stitched with omissions. Shadows. Philip. The attack. How they had been told to leave for fear that they would be seen as the enemy.

  Callum’s death at the border as they escaped into the Wastelands. He didn’t look at Amalia or Albert; his voice sure to crack if he did.

  He pushed on: the trek through the Wastelands, the refuge of Varosha, how they learned to survive out there. They learned strange rites, scraps of old magic, the unpredictability of dungeons. Even the beauty, the simplicity of life.

  William had questions, obviously, but he didn’t interrupt. Not yet. Arms folded, eyes flicking to the others. Albert didn’t say a word. Amalia met his look once and looked away.

  There were things River didn’t mention.

  He left out Sylas’s visions, and that their bonded were born from dungeon essence. Not the green cube in his bag, warm with a faint, steady pulse. Too volatile. Too raw. Maybe he didn’t even understand them himself. They were truths that felt too big to let slip.

  When he finished, William sat stroking his beard, as if replaying the story frame by frame.

  Then: “Interesting. Why are the shadows after you?”

  River’s breath snagged. He hadn’t said that part. Not the why.

  A lie? A confession? Primordial? in a noble’s carriage, with soldiers outside, a noble voice across from him? Before he chose, Amalia’s fingers brushed his hand. She lifted her own hand to mirror his and answered first. “We progressed faster than the others,” she said, steady. “Stronger affinities. The shadows tried to claim us.”

  No tremor, no pause. River swallowed; his heart slowed. Thank Lady Luck. She hadn’t told him the rest.

  William studied them a beat longer, then nodded. “Hm. All right.” He sounded skeptical, but he didn’t press.

  The caravan finally slowed; hooves fell silent. Loud orders and the clatter of metal took over.

  A guard opened the door, bowed his head. “My lord, your tent is being set up. Food will be served shortly. Do you wish to remain seated, or come outside?”

  William’s face turned to stone. “I’ll come outside,” he said, voice flat.

  The change was startling.

  Among soldiers, William became something else, carved from command. A mask snapped into place. No slip of feeling. Frightening, honestly.

  He stepped down and motioned them after. River had hoped they might be left a minute to huddle, to speak—but no.

  Outside, it might as well have been a different world. Dozens of hands moved with crisp purpose—tents flared open like sails catching a stiff wind. River hung back, waiting for William to speak first. No reason to push.

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  William dropped into a fur-padded chair by the fire pit, still fresh with soot. He didn’t seem to notice the bustle around him. His gaze stayed fixed, almost grim, on the flames leaping at his boots. A soldier offered a plate. River took it, set it on his lap; heat seeped in, quieting the ache.

  “William, can I ask something?”

  A nod.

  “How did you find us? Did you know we were coming?”

  William didn’t answer at once. He pointed at Amalia’s necklace. “Tracker. That’s why the border guards intercepted you.” He let out a short laugh. “And yes, that’s why the guards’ schedules changed. We couldn’t risk letting you slip past, slippery as you are.”

  Something flickered in his eyes—pride, maybe.

  River’s stomach dipped. So that was the thread.

  Color climbed into Amalia’s cheeks. “What the hell?” She swallowed, her voice softening as she spoke: “You should have trusted me.”

  She ripped the chain off and hurled it. “I don’t want it.”

  William caught it in one hand. Sighed. “And if we didn’t have it? If something happened and we didn’t know where to look? Your mother would kill me.”

  A reluctant laugh broke out of Amalia despite herself. William stepped over and held the necklace out.

  After a beat, she took it back begrudgingly, muttering something River didn’t catch.

  Ready? He sent across the bond; the phoenix stayed sleep-warm and heavy.

  River rose from the chair. As he started to walk off, William met him, a hand settling on his shoulder as he leaned in.

  William leaned close. “I know what you are, River,” he said softly. “Primordial.”

  The word hit like iron. Amalia’s fingers curled white around Nymeira’s scales; Albert went statue-still. William didn’t raise his voice; only they had heard it.

  River didn’t turn. Silence is a story too, he told himself and kept walking.

  They walked to a private tent. He pushed the moment back; dwelling on it wouldn’t achieve anything.

  He stepped inside and stopped dead. It was huge. A steaming tub big enough for three Alberts, a wide bed with fresh linens, a polished desk, a rack of silk robes sorted by color and size. Steam and a hint of lavender softened the air.

  Maria worked without fuss, humming while she added more hot water. The steam thickened, lamplight turning it to pale gold. River sat on the bed. The fabric was softer than anything he’d touched in weeks. He looked at his sleeves—salt-stiff, dirt-striped—and let a breath leak out.

  Clean would be good.

  Maria finished and turned. “Shall I fetch someone to bathe you?”

  He blinked. Nearly laughed—until he saw her face. Not joking.

  “Uh, no. I’m fine.”

  She bowed and left. River’s ears burned. He shook his head, stripped, and slid into the heat. For a while, just a while. Peace. Muscles unwound.

  When the water cooled and steam thinned, he took the hint. Time to move.

  He dried off, chose the simplest robe—dark, least likely to draw an eye, and collapsed onto the bed. The drain of essence overuse crept in, hollow and heavy. He’d rest. Just for a minute.

  Darkness. Brief.

  He snapped awake, the night still enveloped the world around. Something tugged at him, not sound. A pull. Or too many thoughts piled up.

  He moved carefully so as not to wake Calira. She stirred anyway. He scooped her into his arms, slung on his bag, and slipped out. Lanterns guttered low. Wind was cooler now. At the camp’s edge he found a patch of dark and sat cross-legged, settling Calira in his lap.

  From his bag, he drew the book he’d avoided since leaving school: Magical Artifacts and the Application of Runes.

  He exhaled through his nose.

  Runes. He hated runes—too rigid, too slow, all knife-angles and perfect placement. Magical calligraphy. He preferred instincts and flow, not scratching glyphs into cold metal.

  Preferences didn’t matter tonight.

  He set Kamir’s cube in his palm: smooth metal, unreadable wards. One mark he knew: the eagle crest etched on Varosha’s pyramid. Sylas. The cube pulsed once, faintly, as if it knew he’d noticed.

  If answers existed, they’d be in here.

  He cracked the book and began. Under stranger stars, in a camp that wasn’t his, tracing diagrams he didn’t like. But Kamir had given him this. That had to mean something.

  The cube answered with another tiny pulse, steady as a yes.