Before anyone could stop them again, they raced out the city gates and into the night.

  37

  CASSIA

  Cassia clutched at the reins for dear life, but it didn’t stop her from twisting in her saddle as she begged for everyone to stop. They couldn’t leave their people behind. Not Gilbert, not Gwyn’s companions who’d come out of the woodwork to aid them… and not Master Orin.

  She thought of Orin tending to her as a small girl when she was sick. Of how gentle and kind he’d always been. She thought of the evenings when she would intrude on her father’s chess games with him and how she would crawl into one of their laps while they explained the game to her. When she got older, they even allowed her to play now and again. Orin always let her win. She sat in on some of the lessons he gave his apprentices. He took in the small animals she found injured or abandoned. He’d been warm and attentive and ever present for her when Father had been busy or away.

  Now Orin looked back at them with a red glint in his eyes that sparked familiarity only because Cassia had seen it before, from Everis. Orin tore through the guards that came after him with horrifying ease until Drake Reed’s apprentices advanced on him. One man against a group of blood magi… Was he strong enough to win this? Something in the set of Lady Imaryllis’s jaw and her hardened eyes gave her an answer she didn’t want.

  She carried with her a letter Master Orin had given her before they left the inn. The parchment in her pocket felt heavy. She clutched at it to ensure it was still there.

  “When you see them, please give this to Wren and Everis.”

  Had he known it would come to this?

  The frantic pleas to turn back fell from her lips unbidden. No one listened. What could they have done for him even if they’d stayed?

  Even so, Cassia begged and begged until the portcullis slammed shut behind them.

  She turned and pressed her face into Rue’s tunic and sobbed.

  38

  ORIN

  Relinquishing himself to blood magic was like sinking into a warm bath after a long journey. Comfortable. Familiar. Invigorating. The city gates were closing again. It no longer mattered. The princess was on the other side. Now it was up to him to keep Drake and his soldiers from going after them. He needed to buy time.

  A blade grazed Orin’s ribs, wrenching him to one side with a hiss. He held fiercely onto his concentration. If he could win this, everyone—the city, Cassia, Everis, Wren—would be safe. The surge of power washed over him, and he whipped around, chanting beneath his breath. The ground trembled, bits of stone and wood breaking free from the surrounding buildings. A beam came crashing down onto a few soldiers. Their screams rang through the night.

  A soldier narrowly avoided the collapse, ending on his knees in the dirt. Orin was on him before he could get up, splitting his throat open wide with one quick stroke of his blade. The man clutched at the wound, staring at the crimson pouring down his front with wide eyes. The sensation sent a shiver down Orin’s spine, slaking a thirst he’d ignored for far too long.

  Finally.

  It was time to deal with the head of the serpent.

  Drake.

  Orin slid his palm along the flat of his blood-covered sword and drew another rune on his arm.

  Keep going.

  Exhaustion made his vision blur.

  Everyone is depending on you.

  Drake made his way through the soldiers, eyes flashing in fury and lips curled into a snarl.

  Orin dropped his sword, extending his hands to either side and closing his eyes. Around him, the raindrops froze in mid-air, the pitter-patter turning into a deafening silence. The words fell from his lips like a prayer, and the water gathered against his palms, swelling and swirling into tumultuous watery spheres. Drake closed in on him. Orin’s arms lifted. The storm circulated through every nerve of his body.

  Another incantation. The gathered water split again, hardening into glass-like shards, thousands of little knives suspended in the mist. His eyes snapped open. The ice ripped through the air with magnificent force, unpredictable in its trajectory. They tore through the leather of soldiers’ armor, penetrated the joints where metal plates met, shredded through exposed skin. All around him, Orin could hear, see, feel the guards dying. Could feel the air clouding with a fine red mist of rain, magic, and blood.

  The fallen were people he’d known for decades. He saw them now as a snuffed-out flame, an insignificant sear against his skin.

  It serves them right.

  The effects of the spell slithered out of him. He gasped, doubling forward to catch his breath. His heart raced with the possibilities. Why had he ever given this up? He differed from Drake or anyone else. He could harness it, control it, use it to protect those he cared for. And he would start by ripping Drake Reed to pieces and avenging everyone whose life had been lost because of him.

  The mist cleared enough that he could see Drake kneeling several feet away, gripping his bleeding side where he’d not been fast enough to avoid the barrage of ice. Orin scooped up a fallen soldier’s sword.

  Nearby, a small voice wailed.

  Orin stands in a rundown home in a plague-infested city, staring at a boy with wide, frightened eyes. He knows that look. He knows the crawling sensation of dark magic. He knew it intimately for so many years.

  Everis. His name is Everis.

  Later, he holds the young boy’s hand as they enter the castle, and Everis is filled with fear and uncertainty that Orin can feel to his bones. He squeezes that tiny hand, smiles down at him, reassuring.

  “I know it looks intimidating, but this will be your home. We will be your family, and I will keep you safe.”

  Orin stumbled, whirling toward the sound. He spotted a boy near a building desecrated by the ongoing battle, spotted the crumbling bits of that same building that were precariously close to falling. Only in his periphery did he see Drake extending a hand toward the building to coax the debris along. The smirk on his face spoke volumes.

  What will it be? Which will you choose? Your power and your revenge?

  Orin bit back a cry.

  Wren is seven, a force to be reckoned with, a boy easily overwhelmed by his emotions. He will be a good magi someday, but he has much to learn.

  Orin finds him on the second floor of the tower, in tears, hunched over a collection of books and potion bottles—several of which are broken. Concerned, Orin steps up behind him, though it only takes a moment to see that Wren’s attempts at replicating potions have not worked and he’s shattered the bottles in his frustration. Orin only watches, silent.

  Wren sniffs, swiping a sleeve across his eyes. “I can’t do it. I can’t. It’s too hard. I’m not going to be a magi.”

  “Aren’t you? That’s disappointing to hear.” Orin takes a seat on the bench beside him. Wren looks at him, eyes filling with tears anew before he lets out a sob.

  Orin planted a foot into the cobblestone and twisted to change direction, making a dash for the boy. He snatched the child into his arms as the rubble came crashing down, and they struck the ground rolling, hard enough that Orin’s shoulder wrenched out of place upon impact. The child clung to him, dirty-faced, big green eyes and blond hair, howling in fear.

  He says nothing as he gathers Wren into his arms and holds him, allowing his apprentice to cry into his robes. It’s not just the spells, is it? Wren is only a child, trying to adapt to castle life and to the expectations placed upon him. Worse yet—the expectations Orin knows he places upon himself. Wren’s own family didn’t want him, so how must it feel now, in a new place with new people, afraid of failing? Afraid of further rejection?

  Orin gently strokes Wren’s hair back from his face. He allows Wren to cry because sometimes tears are necessary for healing, and he will not make his apprentice think there was anything wrong with his grief. They were family. He was Wren’s and Wren was his. His actions would speak louder than any words ever could.

  Orin stared at the child, pain radiating through his shoulder. With his still-functional hand, he pried the boy from him and whispered urgently, “Go.” The boy didn’t need to be told twice. Orin rolled to his side, trying to reorient himself amongst the settling dust and rain and the ringing in his ears. He reached for the magic again, rallying his strength so he could stand and fight.

  He got as far as his knees before pain shot through every nerve in his body.

  He didn’t need to look down to know he was bleeding. Shards of broken armor, spearheads, splinters of steel and iron, magically propelled, pierced him from every direction. Orin could feel each and every one where they bit into his lungs and stomach and ribs.

  He breathed in to try to speak. Coughed. Choked on the taste of blood.

  Footsteps. The overflow of Drake’s magic rushing over him. Drake stood behind him, bending down. But no longer did his voice hold its melodious taunting lilt. Rage radiated from him like fire.

  “Why, Orin? Why did you make me do this?” Drake dropped to his knees before him. The beautiful, clear eyes Orin had once admired were barely recognizable. His friend, his companion, was little more than a stranger to him now. That stranger grabbed Orin’s face. “Why did you make me do this?! I always meant for this to be both of us. We would have taken the world by storm. Why were you willing to use blood magic to fight against me rather than with me?”

  It took Orin a few tries to speak.

  “I am disappointed in you.”

  There, in that moment, Orin saw a flicker of the Drake Reed he knew and loved in those eyes.

  Drake flinched back as though scalded. He lurched to his feet. Tore away from Orin and screamed, fury and resentment and grief ripping through the night like the same shards that had ripped through Orin.

  Orin felt his ability to breathe leave him as he slumped forward to the ground, clutching uselessly at his chest. It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t painless. Drake wasn’t kind enough for that. He raged on, snarling orders to his apprentices and guards. It sounded so very far away. Drake left him there in the dirt to either bleed out or suffocate on his own blood, whichever came first.

  It gave him time to think. Time to regret, to grieve. For the lives that were lost. For Cassia, being stripped of both her parents so young. For the friend he had lost. For all the moments in Wren’s and Ever’s lives he wouldn’t be there to see.

  Oh, but he was so proud of them. Of everything they were, everything they would ever be. Brilliant and kind and wonderful. They would have each other. He found comfort in that, even if in nothing else.

  As Cassia mounts her horse, Orin takes her hand and presses the freshly penned letter into her palm. She pauses, looks down at him, frowning. “What is this?”

  “It’s for Wren and Ever. In the event you see them before I do. Would you see that they receive it?”

  She meets his eyes, the worry and concern clear in her soft face. Yet the urgency of their present situation isn’t lost on her. They have no time for questions. She takes the folded parchment and tucks it away with a curt nod. “Of course.”

  Orin steps back. Bows. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “However, it’s my intention that we will all see them together.”

  Orin offers her a small smile. “Yes. That is my hope as well.”

  He spotted Nova, perched amongst the rubble of the homes he and Drake had destroyed.

  How many people did I hurt?

  She fluttered over to him. The soft brush of her wings against his face brought him comfort. She didn’t make a sound but bowed forward, pressing her head into his hand as her eyes met his. He couldn’t speak, but when had they ever needed words? Perhaps she would continue to live on with whatever magic he’d once imbued her with. Perhaps he could give her whatever little he had left.

  Look after Ever and Wren for me, my friend.

  She remained with him until the end, as she always had.

  39

  WREN

  Wren woke to the fluttering of wings against his face and the scent of rain and the taste of ash on the back of his tongue. The sound of clashing metal and a slowing heartbeat echoed in his ears long after his eyes snapped open. He bolted upright, breathless and soaked in cold sweat. He reached for the spot next to him in bed and found it empty. Everis stood by the windows, bathed in cold moonlight. By the shadows beneath his eyes, he didn’t appear to have slept yet, or at least not slept well.

  Wren tried to make his mouth work. No sound came out. His chest heaved with dread and terror. Something was so very wrong in a way he’d never experienced before. His vision blurred, tears overflowing.

  When he tried again to speak, his voice caught in a sob. He brought a hand to his face, touching the tears on his cheeks. Where had they come from?

  Everis didn’t ask if he was all right, but came to him immediately. It was all Wren could do to grab Everis the moment he was close enough, pulling Ever’s tall frame into his arms to embrace him. Everis enveloped him in a tight hug. They clung to one another in silence while Wren tried to reel in his whirling emotions.

  “Something’s wrong,” he finally managed, barely a whisper against Everis’s throat.

  “I know.” His fingers slid through Wren’s hair, reassuring, although his anxiety was palpable. Whatever Wren was feeling, Everis felt it too. He only wished he could pinpoint what it was.

  Wren pulled back to look at him. “We should be home. We should’ve left days ago.”

  “You know that wasn’t an option. We couldn’t have known what was going on,” Everis said gently. How odd of him to be the practical one, but he was right. “But…”

  “But?”

  “We could leave. Right now.”

  Wren scrubbed a hand across his eyes, frustrated with himself and his confusing emotional outburst. “It’s the middle of the night. We can’t possibly wake everyone to leave.”

  Everis paused. “I didn’t say everyone else. I said we.”

  That earned him an incredulous look. “Are you mad? You think we can go through the mountain pass, just the two of us, and make it out alive?”

  “I can protect us.” Defiance glinted in Everis’s eyes as he spoke, his spine stiffening.

  “You’ve only just begun training to keep your power in check. Don’t go thinking you’re a master in your own right just yet.”

  Ever flushed in embarrassment, yet the barb seemed to do the trick of shaking some sense back into him. “I only meant, if we don’t have time to spare, if you feel we need to be home…”

  Wren closed his eyes. He wanted to grab his things and dart out that door immediately, just like Ever said. But it would be suicide. What would they even do if they made it to Midmere in one piece? Stage a two-person rescue mission for Master Orin? Go up against Drake and whoever had sided with him?

  Faulk said they had friends there that could help us, he remembered.

  Yet Orin’s voice lectured in his head. Don’t be reckless. Patience. It was so crystal clear it made his eyes fill with fresh tears all over again.

  What’s wrong with me?

  He swallowed the lump in his throat, forcing himself to take a few deep breaths. Perhaps he was homesick. It wasn’t as though he was used to being away from Midmere without Orin.

  “Thank you, Ever, but no. We’ll leave in the morning, as planned.”

  With great effort, he lay back down, pulling Everis with him. Everis kissed him, full and desperate and just as afraid as Wren felt. They curled there together beneath the down blankets, their limbs intertwined. Wren was hyperaware of every breath against his neck and bare chest. Everis’s eyes were closed, but Wren knew he was wide awake.

  The world felt empty and wrong. His heart hurt.

  Neither of them slept much the rest of the night. When morning arrived, Wren’s eyes were heavy and tight, his limbs weighted. Still, he moved with purpose, hurrying Everis along. They bade their farewells to Ryland, Ivy, and Captain Annaliese. Wren wondered if the soldiers were secretly happy to see Everis leave.

  Faulk had said they would wait at the city limits. Wren didn’t spot the growingly familiar Court outfits, but there was a group of six people dressed in riding leathers lingering with their horses. They might’ve looked like any other band of riders, but something about them made Wren glance twice. One of them had his eyes on them. Ever flanked his left as they rode closer. The watchful man tugged the reins, drawing his horse toward Wren’s. His long silver hair had been pulled back out of his face, which was marred by angry scars across one cheek, but it was his striking gold eyes that caught Wren’s attention.

  He drew to a halt, stunned. It was the first time he’d seen the man without his mask and hood. “Faulk?”

  “Magi,” Faulk replied easily, turning to coax his steed into a brisk walk so they could begin their journey away from the city.

  Wren rode up alongside him, a smile playing across his mouth. “Here I was beginning to wonder if you had a face under there after all.”

  Faulk snorted. “Trust me. I’d have preferred us wearing our uniforms, but we’re meant to be common sellswords and these clothes attract less attention.”

  A cursory look over the others didn’t reveal anyone Wren knew—although Everis was eyeing one of the young men in surprise.

  “I saw him at Ryland’s manor,” Ever said. “He came in to stoke the fire and bring our supper, remember?”

  Wren squinted. The young man did have a slight air of familiarity about him. He was unremarkable looking. Short dark eyes and hair, olive complexion.

  Faulk cracked a smile. “I needed a way to keep an eye on you, didn’t I?”

  They really are everywhere.