I’m an enemy to everything I once knew.

  Those I left behind are doomed to treason.

  My broken body is powerless to mend it.

  I sweat through the wool covers, reliving fever dreams of the battle that landed me here and those who came to visit me thereafter.

  “…So many died, Hale…” Jurso’s mop of blondish hair tickles my arm at my bedside, as do his tears. “I watched them fall before we were summoned out. War-tutors, cadets…”

  “What did I tell you, invalid?” Scorius’ voice rattles from the other room. “Out, now.”

  Another dream. I can’t tell what’s real anymore.

  My haze only deepens. Layla’s soft blue eyes and my father’s unbothered ones stare over me.

  “That’s right, half a vial should do it today.” My father puts his hands on his hips.

  “It’s hurting him.” Layla grimaces, looking up.

  “Scorius Draken’foe may be many things, good guardian, but he is no saboteur.” My father laughs. “This will mend the deep wound. You’ll see. Hale will be right as bliss soon. Give it time.”

  I groan, spinning onto my back, my belly, drenched in sweat.

  What is this dark sensation rousing me from sleep?

  The rickety wooden wall creeks at my back. Commotion rings all around me, yet I have to remain still. Bedridden. Counting the candlelight flickers in my half lucid state is maddening, and I’ve blocked access to my roost of dragons for fear of harming them further with my Arkitus.

  I thought my days of ailing were done, but pulling the full might of my bonds comes with a heavy tax. Now I’m stuck, drowning in my Prominent’s tinctures in hopes to mend the magic wounds suffered at the hand of Head Magus Foren Torell. At first, I wasn’t sure it was him who punctured me, but some hazy mumblings from the healers and an icy burn confirmed the truth of it.

  Gods. How did I get here, nearly murdered by the very faction I was rising to protect?

  I’m supposed to be a general—a rank breaker not seen in all of mythos. But what am I really?

  One who poisons his own roost, causing them to bear the burden of my affliction because I’m not strong enough to.

  One who lost a precious marked who I swore to protect.

  Leaving Misty behind in the wreckage of Elshard, and Kane—my ghoulborn brother—along with countless cadets who decided to back me up… it knots my insides to think of it. Not sure who to blame, really. Had my newly unearthed father—Casterban Winbridge—chose to wait another few years before making his grand plea, I’d be earning rank in my House Sivus quarters. My marked—Layla, Renesta, Jurso, Rogo, and Misty—would all be powerful enough to contend with elites. But that pipedream’s over now.

  The true nature of the Miria Empire and Lacor Kingdomnia is clear. War for power. Unending, bleeding war. Each of them wish to own the afterlife and seize control for eternity.

  Do I regret my decision to help the rebellion?

  No. It was the only move. But Scorius, my Prominent, was right. I was not ready.

  Laying in this cabin in the side-tier, magical wounds sending fire shooting up and down my abdomen whenever I move… tinctures playing with my mind… it’s given me all the time in the world to fester. The powers I’ve summoned through my bound dragon spirits proved I could harm an elite. The cost, however, was dire. Recalling Sefene’s wing ridden with Arkitus means I can’t summon them all to battle on a whim without paying a price.

  There’s so much to learn.

  Screw it. Today is a new day. Hells if I’ll be drowning in the comfort of pillows while the others work and advance.

  Throwing the wool covers off of me is a chore in and of itself. The bandage wrapped around my abdomen glows blue whenever I sit forward—the sting of Head Magus’ high-magic ice still stabbing every which way. Gods-damn diamond rank spells. The hell was I thinking? It’s hard to remember being struck in the first place.

  I curse to myself, and make the mistake of groaning.

  Pomf!

  My door swings open, revealing a set of worried crystal blue eyes latched onto mine. Her stone-chiseled arms are that much more intimidating when mine hardly work.

  “Hale…” Layla’s voice is worried at first. “Hale,” sternness kicks in. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “No one will answer my questions… so I’m going to see this place for myself.” Ice shards impale my insides like I’ve been stabbed by a ghost, but if I listen to my body and lay down again, I’ll never move.

  “Scorius’ orders. He said you’re a foolish invalid who will just get riled up at the first hint of mythos.”

  We both smirk at that.

  “Well, he’s not wrong,” I say.

  “You’re no good to us if you don’t recover.”

  “I’m through sitting on my ass, Lay. You know as well as anyone what we left behind in Elshard. Don’t make me say it.” I push delicately to my feet—arms shaking.

  She rushes over, but I put my hand up for her to hold.

  “He’s going to kill us if he sees.” Lay winces.

  “Well, you’ll just have to be my guard once again.”

  “Not sure my hammer stance would hold against your Prominent’s warring dark,” she scoffs.

  “I’d pay to see you try.”

  “Pfah. With what? Your spit? Those merits you earned in Elshard aren’t exactly worth much around here.”

  “Great. We’re as poor as we were in the sub-tier, aren’t we?”

  “Least we don’t have to suffer burning whips here.”

  “Speak for yourself.” I point to my bandage, then laugh, and nearly double over from the pain.

  “Shit.” She drapes my arm over her shoulder to keep me upright.

  I fight to straighten, and when I do, the icy spikes melt to harmless water.

  Gods, finally… a sliver of relief.

  Only the throbbing inflammation remains.

  “Mmph.” Groaning is a good distraction. “I’m good.”

  “You sure?” Her brow furrows as I push away to stand on my own.

  “Yeah.” I press my palm flat against the wood panel, using it to stabilize. “Take me to wherever Scorius and Casterban are.”

  “I can’t do that. I’m on duty to keep you put.” Lay places her fists to her hips, showcasing her massive arms.

  I’m jealous. I haven’t been able to train physically or magically in what feels like weeks. Apparently, I’ve been sleeping for days at a time.

  “I’ve been thinking while alone in here—”

  “Oh no,” Layla grimaces, making me cackle into a cough.

  “Oh yes. You might’ve hit your head, but I remember very clearly the moments before your fall.” I eye her. “I know you’ve been thinking it too. The twin flames of an elite caster, converged to one. The spheres were as bright as the tier one sun… and you dispelled it.”

  She clenches her jaw.

  “We all would’ve been incinerated had you not acted,” I say.

  “We all played a part, Hale.”

  “That’s not my point.” I limp toward the candlelight, getting my bearings. “Your resistance grew incredibly after one rank up to iron. Those weren’t cadets in class testing you. Those were elites… in battle. I wasn’t the only one who broke rank that day. You, being my marked, may have too…”

  “Your head is in the clouds. I nearly died protecting against that flame,” she says. “Passed out immediately.”

  “You give yourself too little credit. Where’s the warrior who found herself after becoming an anti-mage?” I feel like Scorius hobbling around like this, brooding.

  “She died when we flew against the Miria elites,” she jests. “Or at the very least, found humbleness again.”

  “Don’t fool yourself. We made a difference on the battlefield, Lay. We’re meant to uncover the secrets of this world, and lead battalions to victory. Just like Elshard believes in that prick, Lor’fyre, we have to believe in ourselves.”

  “Now you’re getting way ahead of yourself.” She gestures to me struggling to keep upright.

  “You’re right… But I have to. One of our marked is lost to our old empire. We have to get her back. And my brother—”

  “Hale…”

  “All this power…” I ignore her, not wanting to hear of her disbelief. “Wielding it hurt Sefene in the process.”

  “What?” Her eyes widen as she stomps up to me, but I only turn away, staring at the flickering candlelight that’s been plaguing me the past weeks, then up to a looking glass over the dresser. Gods I look gaunt. Is it because I haven’t been moving? Or because I’ve been blocking my dragons from entering my mental plane? Probably the former. My two-toned hair is a greasy mess, and it’s grown during my time in bed.

  “Hale,” she raises her voice to get my attention.

  Pressing two of my fingers over the flame, it goes out with a hiss.

  “Molded since birth, Lay.” I stare at the black marks on my fingers. “If Casterban is my father… then why would that chipper eccentric let us succumb to such a fate?”

  Thinking of the sub-tier, the Danes in that dank cellar all that time ago… Those first moments of hearing my brothers and sisters knifed by high-rank enchanted weaponry—the sound of steel through flesh—it’s haunting.

  “I have the same question for my parents,” she says.

  “I don’t think yours are part of Freedom’s Ire,” I reveal with a frown.

  “Why do you say that?”

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  “Call it a hunch. The Barristans were known for guarding royalty. I doubt there are kings here to protect.”

  Lay pushes her lips to one side.

  “And if I’m right, and they are part of the war machine, then it’s clear why they would send you to the pits of the sub-tier. A hope that their daughter would rise to the occasion. Call it pride, survival of the fittest, whatever… the war hungry have high standards for survival. My guess? It’s the most prideful who send their offspring to the Sept chasing the warring dark. Based on all we learned in Elshard from our fellow cadets, sure, the high society brats have their challenges, but they didn’t watch their brothers and sisters get incinerated in an underground dungeon.” I shake my head. “All this time chasing donations in Elshard… and all the answers were right under our nose.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up, Hale. The Head Magus already did that for you.” She folds her arms.

  “Answers. I’ve waited long enough for them.”

  “I know of a certain bitch holding the keys. Want me to rough her up?”

  “Are you serious? You two still aren’t getting along?” I turn on her, suffering a fresh ice spike within me near my chest. “Ren saved you, you know. The others aren’t just saying that to keep you from suffocating her in her sleep.”

  She scoffs at that. “Lived with her long enough to prove I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “There’s a bit more fuel now, I think. Hell, I’m furious with her.” I spread my hands over the dresser, trying to prop myself up in such a way to avoid more searing pain. “Regardless, I watched her dive and use Kelfore’s shadow to scoop you up.”

  “So they say.” Lay arcs an eyebrow.

  “Uh huh, still not convinced. I’ll bring this group back together if it kills me.” I take a step for the door.

  “Oh no you don’t.” She stands in my way. “Your Prominent will have my head.”

  “Since when are you scared of a war-tutor?” I challenge, pushing past her.

  Our eyes lock when she refuses to move.

  “Guide and guard, Lay.”

  She huffs and steps aside.

  The next room of the cabin is barren. A rustic barebones wooden frame with not a hint of life in it. Just a window letting in light from outside.

  I can’t help but gape at the mages outside summoning Kyard—to enrich their army by enchanting steel—and concocting structures before my eyes. It’s not the magic that mesmerizes me, but the robes some wear. Plucked straight out of old mythos, one lanky man is drapped in a mix of purple and black from Lacor Kingdomonia—Miria’s warring faction and true enemy.

  “To think Casterban really is a binding force attempting to pull both factions together,” I say.

  Layla swallows hard at that, and I catch it.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. It’s strange to converse with the enemy, is all.”

  “I can’t wait to.” I narrow my eyes. “I’ll learn how true mythos is to culture and temperament. Wading through the lies of text has become one of my favorite pastimes.”

  “I don’t know where you find the patience.” She scratches the back of her head.

  “Was born with it, just like you were born to whip brutes.” I side-eye her, then hobble toward the front door. The smell of pine and musk makes the air heavy. I wonder if it’s all from my sleeping aura polluting the place for weeks. Scorius had me on all sorts of tinctures, making it impossible to focus whenever someone would visit, but no more.

  My first step outside relieves me of the stuffy cabin I’ve been marinating in. Fresh air feels good in my lungs, like my first and only spring in Elshard. Heat rises up one side of my face, begging me to turn.

  “The hell?”

  There’s a floating pale green fiery essence to the left of the door, which makes me tense up on the spot.

  One of Casterban’s spirits, I realize.

  “This is where I’m hanged for treason,” Layla jests. “The spirit will tell Casterban, and soon, Scorius will slap me into the war-tier with his blackened wing.”

  “Oh, give it a rest.” I scan my surroundings, taking it all in.

  Thirty-foot crystal-tailed phoenixes stand watch over high beige-brick ledges on the outskirts of an unfinished town, staring at lightning cracks frozen in the sky. Are they keeping watch for something? There are other huts and cabins like mine, each with their own activity. The air is tense and ominous, reminding me of what woke me up in the first place this morning.

  Krcht!

  One of the lightning bolts frozen in the sky percolates with magi, jarring me to attention. The crystal phoenixes spread their wings and breathe their heavenly essence—alerting one another to about face. The mage workers stop what they’re doing and spin with elements brimming at their fingertips.

  Everyone lives in fear here.

  Freedom’s Ire.

  The rebellion.

  “Hope you’ve been practicing your stances, Lay,” I say, pressing hard on her arm so I can turn toward the sky for a better look.

  “Every night.” Her eyes brighten from the fissure lighting with power high above. “Not sure what an iron rank is worth without her mark flowing through her, though.” She eyes me.

  “I’ll call the roost again if it comes to it,” I assure, holding my chest.

  Out bursts a spindly wyvern decked in dark purple armor and a gold-plated tongue hanging longer than its tail.

  Is this what I’ve been sensing? The dark presence?

  Atop it, a man with matching robes and a long ponytail swishing from the top of his helm holds up an orb, Freedom’s Ire’s dark wing emblem emblazoned within it.

  The phoenixes stand down, as do the mages, and with an artful spin past two half-built spires, the wyvern spreads its wings and lands in front of the sole completed castle not far to the east.

  “That’s him,” Layla gapes, whispering mostly to herself. “It must be.”

  “Holding out on me?”

  Elites of all types run out of their huts to my left, and my eyes follow the small stampede of people rushing to greet this unknown Lacor rider.

  “That’s Hoctrel Elsar—”

  “The one Casterban mentioned when he was pleading among the elites at Elshard,” I say, energy returning.

  “Seems you’re out of your daze.”

  “We’re going where the commotion is.” I drape my arm over Layla and begin to hobble, ignoring the shining bandages fighting Foren’s ice.

  “Absolutely not. We’re stayin—”

  Renesta steals the air right out of her mouth. Her emerald eyes shine in the sunlight as she struts by, long cloak with spiked shoulders making her almost unrecognizable—like royalty. Where’s the aloof cadet from Elshard?

  I’m shocked that her laser focus is only on the rider—not even glancing to see me awake and out of bed. Not that I need the attention… but we did kind of go through a life altering battle.

  Jurso, on the other hand, comes scrambling up to us out of breath, his mop of dirty blond hair bouncing with every step. “Hale… what?” He points to me, then to the wyvern. “It’s quiet here for three weeks, then one crazy morning you’re out of your healing chamber and there’s a Lacor duke in the sky.”

  I smile. “Good to see you too, friend. Quick, give me some bliss—”

  “Oh no.” He shakes his head and waves his hands back and forth, the fear of Scorius in his eyes.

  “He got to you too?” I sigh.

  “I don’t know how you had solo class with him, Hale. That man, or bird, whatever he is… he’s terrifying.”

  “You want to ignite operation locate Misty?” I raise my eyebrows, a bit mad at myself for stooping so low.

  Layla even gasps at me.

  “Get me moving, Jurs.” I make sure to hold his eyes so Lay can’t signal to him.

  “Hale, we don’t know the side-effects—” Lay tries, but I cut her off by grabbing Jurso’s hand and placing it on my chest.

  The golden light branches through me like a web of mist, giving me relief I haven’t felt in weeks. I exhale a deep breath as my limbs and muscles return from feverish states, and in this moment, I understand why the damn magic could be so addicting.

  Shutting my eyes tight, I focus on the pain spots—chest and abdomen—and relish in Foren’s long-lasting spells melting into mist within the bandages.

  Then, with a breath of fresh air, I’m ready. “Let’s go.” Taking my first normal steps, the aches are still there, but they’re buried. It’s good.

  I’m the only one in a night robe, but I guess I’ll blend in with some of the lower mages just fine.

  There’s a crowd forming near the castle down the way, and the large wooden door crisscrossed with resplendent mage protection bellows open. I can’t see who or what is coming out of it, but I will soon.

  The crowd parts for certain figures—Renesta among them.

  “Casterban!” Hoctrel shouts in angry fashion, followed by his wyvern’s shriek. As he removes his helm, rosy cheeks of fiery hate exacerbate his scornful frown. Stubble and dark circles rim his eyes.

  As we approach the crowd, more becomes clear. Elites circle the wyvern fearlessly, blocking the duke’s entrance from the castle.

  “Your lackeys stand in my way,” he growls at those below his wyvern.

  “Trel, please. There is no need to cause thunder during such delicate times,” Casterban reveals himself from the shadow of the castle. His tattered robes and greasy hair make him look uncannily like myself in my worn state, but the spirit motes encircling his back and nearly all-white eyes tell he’s something different entirely.

  “One month and no word. I put my neck on the line for you,” Hoctrel’s anger booms through the land. “We were supposed to be sitting at the table with a Miria castle owner by now. Yet, I hear nothing.”

  “There were complications, I’m afraid. Tempers must settle before I send a scout to one of Miria’s events again,” Casterban speaks calmly, doing his best to deescalate the situation. “It wasn’t for lack of trying.” He presents the glowing bandages around his chest. “And the seeds I meant to plant have surely been planted.”

  “The whole kingdomonia will soon be against me. Then I’ll have to live here… in this filth.” He waves his hand at the half-constructed spires. “That’s if I survive!”

  “The tiers weren’t built in a day, good Duke. If you recall, it took many events to find you.”

  The duke seethes atop his wyvern, making the beast huff and lash its tongue, but as Casterban carefully touches the shoulders of his most trusted and walks past them, the wyvern bows to accept his hand.

  “Don’t think you can sate me with your blissful ways,” Hoctrel lowers his voice. “You know the stakes. You know what looms.”

  “Of course, my friend. I’m the one who set this whole plan in motion because of it.” Casterban backs up and waits for his guest to dismount. “All of us here know the truth.”

  “What the hell is he talking about?” I whisper to Lay and Jurso.

  They both glance at one another.

  “Cut the dragonshit!” I whisper angrily.

  “I think it’s time you go to your Prominent,” Jurso suggests.

  “Speak of the devils.” Lay motions to a black feathery portal manifesting behind the duke.

  The crowd collectively backs up when the hunched golden-eyed man forms from the ocean of warring dark and stamps his cane for Hoctrel’s attention.

  “I told you this dramatic political grime would cause havoc during this critical stage,” Scorius growls, rounding the wyvern as if it were a fly.

  “You dare—”

  “Now, now, Scorius. Manners for our guest,” Casterban pleads.

  “He teeters on the edge of guest and nuisance.” Scorius bares his teeth.

  “Caster, I will take no more of—”

  “We lost loyal soldiers of the Ire trying to broker a meeting for you, Duke.” Scorius stops beside Casterban and stares up at Hoctrel. “While you sat in your ivory tower and quivered for fear of losing status, we stood against the might of Miria. Do not pretend we don’t know what’s at stake.”

  “Need I remind we all have the same values at heart.” Casterban steps between them, his spirit motes extending outward. “Every moment we squabble is another Lacor gains ground.”

  “They near certain victory,” one of the armored elites behind Casterban blurts.

  “If they coerce the afterlife to their side, the Bane of Sile will be unleashed upon the tiers,” another says.

  “The unending storm itself, along with its wielder,” a mage worries.

  “That’s enough.” Casterban throws his spirit motes outward, then rewinds them to slowly circle his back. “Come, let us deliberate like the diplomats we hope to one day be. Leave that beautiful creature, Sles, in the care of our stable master and give your back to our citizens, knowing they full well will guard it.”

  I roll my eyes at my father. “He speaks like the house lords when they bicker.”

  “Would you rather him speak like a doner?” Jurso asks.

  “It almost could’ve been that way,” Layla says. “Efias—that man with the wild alt-magic—could’ve very well been your dad.”

  “He’s still my lineage. Casterban’s brother makes him my uncle. And my uncle has my brother, Kane, in their damn custody.” I shake my head. “And… this Bane of Sile? Are you kidding me?”

  “Banned from Elshard mythos or labeled as folklore so we would pay it no mind.” Jurso shrugs.

  “Nah, you’re forgetting your history,” I say. “King Jasper Freebond the Eighth, also known as—”

  “The Fibber.” Jurso furrows his brow. I think it’s coming back to him.

  “A mad king who decided it best to lie to his people and create a boogeyman in order to start a war with an allied kingdom.”

  “He called that boogeyman… Sile. That’s right. And the folklore that followed that period in time tooted some wild stories about him. It’s all over Elshard.”

  “Yeah, exactly.”

  “Just when we thought the libraries were full and honest in our Sivus quarters…”

  “Wish we got a chance to go back and grab those tomes.” I grit my teeth. “Maybe we will, when we go to rescue Misty.”

  Layla tenses at my side. I catch it, but I’m not on team ‘Misty’s gone.’ Not even close.

  “Hey!” A man my age with cropped feathery white hair struts over. He’s about my height, of lankier build, and his obvious Lacor robes are clasped with one metallic shoulder pad. Is he a mage-type, or warrior? Can’t tell.

  He walks up to Layla, glancing at her lips with a smirk, before eyeing Jurso and myself. His light mood changes abruptly. “You. The dragonborn.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You bring disease and unknown magi. I can smell it all over you.” His eyes glint white, and I suddenly feel violated. “Back to fucking bed before you poison us all.”

  Layla shoves him hard and flexes, but I would’ve expected a sword to the throat for that one. Something’s up between them.

  “Told you not to talk bad about Hale in front of me, Nalthir.” Layla takes a threatening step up.

  “He’s going to screw up everything we’ve been working for—”

  “Haven’t you ever read a tome, Lacor boy?” I push past Layla, ignoring the crippling pain in my belly. “Arkiteus isn’t contagious.”

  “Then why does your dragon’s wing ale?”

  My eyes widen.

  No one can know that… Even Head Magus Foren couldn’t see through my bonds. How?

  “Surprised?” He smirks.

  No. There has to be an explanation. Scorius can see through me. He must’ve glimpsed Sefene before I blocked them all from my mental plane. But why would my Prominent tell him?

  “You will bleed us all to the afterlife before we’ve even gotten off the ground.” Nalthir’s nose wrinkles. “Our leader is protected by spirits, you foolish awakened. If your poison spreads to them, we’re dead.” He scoffs at me. “A fucking mage bomb from within. You’re only here because of your lineage… and if you hobble around this plane much longer, you’ll steal our strength right from under us.”

  Gods. Does he have a point?

  “Nalthir! I’m warning you,” Layla speaks angrily as some of the crowd begins to turn at the commotion.

  “Share a kiss, and you think that equates to a leash around my neck?” He looks beyond me, smirking at her. “You marked are all clouded by this awakened’s poison.” He snaps his fingers, igniting a spark of purple Magi that I’ve seen before—my uncle’s alt-magic.

  A spade-tail whip spirals around him, causing me to take a step back. “Stand down, Dragonborn. Let the myth weavers work.” With a flick of his wrist, he snaps the whip high into the air, causing a starburst fissure that begs all eyes up, including the crowd and the elites about to cross into the castle.

  Time stands still.

  The warring dark that’s been lying dormant in my sickness ignites to life around my forearms. Are we going to fight here and now? Fine.

  I have a mind to remove the barriers and let my dragons in, just long enough to tear this Lacor pledge to pieces.

  “Scorius the Unbonded.” Nalthir’s eyes glow white again as his voice commands the crowd.

  I turn to see the elites about-facing with confused looks.

  The crowd parts to show us.

  “Your pet is off his leash.”