A glyph [https://i.imgur.com/ZLENX3y.png]

The door into the pit opened. Again, Andra heard the jeers and shouts of the crowd above. Again, she stepped onto the scuffed black sand that smelled of death.

Last time she hadn’t known what to expect. Now she did. She faced the door on the other side and waited.

The audience quietened in anticipation. Like her, they waited.

Last time had been the ice-bear. She had killed it — not easily, but it was straightforward. She had fought ice-bears before. Besides, that bear wanted to die. When she slit its throat, its dark eyes gazed into hers with a sort of recognition, one predator to another, and it had sighed its last breath and died gently.

This time, what would it be? A dire-wolf? Another of the animals she’d seen?

The door slid open. A young man stumbled out onto the sand.

Andra took a step back. The hackles on the back of her neck prickled, though she didn’t know why. As an opponent, this was significantly less alarming than the bear. It was just a human, not even full grown. He swayed on his feet, staring at nothing. The rags of a green garment clung to him. He had no weapon. Neither did she, but she needed none.

The noise of the crowd swelled. She ignored them. So did the boy. He must be sick, she thought, or born mindless as some infants are, and she wondered why they had given her such a helpless thing. His death would be quick, at least.

She approached him. He stared into space, paying her no attention, as if blind, and she felt a sudden revulsion for this creature, this brain-sick child sent to be slaughtered. She launched her fist at his throat.

He grabbed her arm before the blow landed and wrenched her off her feet. She flew through the air. The pit wall hit her with bruising force. Too stunned to orient herself, she tumbled to the sand.

The young man remained where he was, still staring at nothing.

She regained her feet. He was fast, faster than her, and strong. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so easy after all.

Slowly, he turned to face her. Black pinpoint pupils regarded her from an immeasurable distance. ‘Salegh,’ he said, his voice grating as if speech was ripped from a throat ill-made for it.

It meant nothing to her. She stood and circled him, and he turned with her, keeping her in view. And as he turned, he changed. Muscle broadened the bony shoulders. His neck bulged. Joints cracked. Stubby human fingernails grew longer and sharper.

He launched himself at her. With no preparation, no muscle tension to warn her, he was at her throat. She wrestled with his writhing flesh. Still-growing claws slashed wildly at her face.

She drove stiffened fingers into his eye socket, expecting him to flinch and withdraw.

He didn’t.

She ripped the eye out. He didn’t seem to notice: there was no pain, no reaction at all. With his eye gone and blood streaming down his face, he still strove to reach her throat with his teeth.

She bunched herself and threw him off. He rolled to his feet instantly. His remaining eye focused on her and he licked the blood from his lips and chuckled — a low humourless laugh that set ice in her bones. Whatever this creature was, it wasn’t human, and it was certainly insane.

Again, he lunged. She dodged to his blindside, took one stride off the wall, jumped and knocked him to the ground.

She seized his head and thumped it into the sand. He clawed at her, ripping skin from her chest and arms. She gripped his throat and squeezed. Her nails dug into his neck. Blood flowed over her hands.

Her arms were slashed and torn. Her own blood drenched her, but she felt no pain. That would come later. For now, there was only the fight, only the effort to grip tighter, to dig deeper, to cut off his breath and blood.

His chest heaved convulsively. He couldn’t breathe and surely he must be dying, yet still he clawed her.

Finally, the creature lay still, its throat all but ripped out. Its face twisted in a wry grin and the light faded from its remaining eye.

She stood, unsteady on her feet, and wiped the blood from her face. The howls of the crowd washed over her. She gazed up at them, at their ugly, empty faces.

If only she could climb the sheer walls, how they would scream then. How they would scream and die.

Now the handlers would come, corner her, collar her, and drag her back to the stinking cage. Until then, she was free: free in these few square yards of bloody sand, never again to see the sun, or feel the wind, or run across the ice-plains under the endless sky.

Even for the hope of killing her sister, she could not live this way.

The doors slid open, and the men came. Three of them, as if they suspected her intent, two armed with the metal collars, the other with a stick. All bore the snake tattoo curled round their forearms. They spread out, surrounding her.

One jabbed at her with the collar. Too tentative; she grabbed it and yanked him off-balance. She drove her fist into his nose, felt the satisfying crunch of cartilage.

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The man to her right swung the stick. She half-turned. The blow cracked into her skull, and suddenly her legs would not bear her weight. She fell, but there was no pain. Only greyness as the colour rushed out of the world, and silence rushed in to replace the human roar.

Enough.

The quiet place beckoned, the misty plains where the souls of hunters rested. There she would find her mother, and her long-forgotten father, and all the family she had ever loved. In that place, there was no hunger, no cold, no pain, no sorrow.

She was only ashamed to go there without having killed Cara. But perhaps she would not be turned away. Perhaps the child also waited for her, and she would be forgiven…

L glyph [https://i.imgur.com/2vwU4yB.png]

Of all the Refuge’s large, empty, echoing rooms, the Court of Wands was the largest and most echoey that Lorie had seen. She stood and stared at the curving walls, the distant ceiling, and the tree-like columns hung with gas lamps.

‘Big, isn’t it?’ Talia said.

‘What’s it all for?’

Talia shrugged. ‘Holywell and much of the Refuge is part of the ancient city. The Wardens just moved in and adapted it a little. We train in here. Touch the floor.’

Puzzled, Lorie bent and pressed her palm to the rough stone. ‘Oh. It’s warm.’

‘The fires of hell are beneath us.’ Talia smiled. ‘Well, the fires of Athanor, anyway.’ She unsheathed her longsword. ‘Ever held a sword?’

Lorie wrapped her fingers round the grip. The weight surprised her; the point dipped to the floor before she recovered.

‘Better start with something lighter.’ Talia turned to the weapons rack and selected a wooden training sword.

Lorie exchanged swords. The wooden sword didn’t feel a lot lighter to her, but Talia was the expert. ‘Thank you for inviting me along. Now the injured folks from the market have left, I don’t have much to do. I mean, we’re grateful you allowed us to stay, but it is kind of boring.’

Talia grinned. ‘You may not be thanking me later.’

The fifteen Wardens of Talia’s section filed into the Court, their unmasked faces relaxed as they chatted and laughed. They took their positions in a loose square formation, each in their own space. A few glanced at Lorie standing off to one side. No one commented.

Lorie had imagined, at first, there were hundreds of Wardens. Having lived among them for a few days and seen them unmasked, she knew there were much fewer, perhaps around a hundred men and women in total. And of those, about half were old.

The Wardens drew their swords, and without any noticeable signal or discussion, the exercise began. Lorie copied Talia as best she could, though by the time she’d adjusted her feet and arms and sword, the Wardens were already flowing into the next stance.

They made it look so easy. Even stooped old men and women moved with fluid grace in perfect synchronisation, as if they were puppets pulled by the same strings.

Lorie’s arm muscles already trembled with the weight of the ‘lighter’ wooden training sword. Keeping up with Talia was a constant scramble. She had to watch, adjust her stance, angle the sword correctly, all while ignoring the burning fatigue in every limb.

She felt awkward and clumsy, but her concentration left no room for self-consciousness. No room for the tight anxious feeling in her chest. No room for thought. No room, even, for the Voice.

Naturally, as soon as she realised what she was doing, her focus broke and left her floundering, panting in the wake of Talia’s effortless grace. But she had done it: for just a moment, she’d achieved the concentrated focus which had eluded her at the Arcanum.

And the Voice was silent.

That night in her cell with the door shut and the lamp extinguished, the darkness was absolute and so was the silence. Lorie lay in bed, warm and comfortable, her muscles pleasantly tired from the training session with the Wardens. The Voice hadn’t bothered her since then, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she thought she would sleep soundly.

Somewhere below her, in the prison, her father was asleep, perhaps. She hoped he was all right. Talia assured her he was comfortable and that she could visit him, like Grace had.

And where was Sam now? Was he safe? Was he thinking of them, and wondering where they were?

Guilt stirred. She hadn’t thought about Sam much over the last few days. Not that her worrying would do him any good, wherever he was, but she oughtn’t forget him. Annoying as he often was, he was her brother. She wouldn’t want anything really bad to happen to him.

Air tickled her ear. She turned onto her side, wondering dozily where the draft had come from.

‘Lorie. It’s me, Phin.’ The voice of the sylph was a warm whisper in the dark.

She jerked awake. ‘Phin, I hear you.’ She held her breath. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird. There was so much she wanted to say, but the words fled from her.

‘Lorie… can you hear me?’

‘Yes. Yes, I’m here. I wrote you a letter. Grace said she’d send it. Did you get it?’

‘Sorry. There’s fighting on the docks. I can’t…’

Warm air brushed her cheek. ‘Don’t go,’ she whispered. She wished she could clutch the air and hold him, but she couldn’t. The sylph had faded and all her hoarded words were useless. She couldn’t tell him how much it meant to have a friend, even if it was only a few whispered words in the dark. Even if was only air that kissed her, not him.

The darkness pressed in on her with solid force. Trembling, she sat and wrapped her arms around herself.

Light. Let there be light.

Gas hissed, and with a sharp whoosh, the lamp on the wall burst into flame, flooding the room with light. Lorie started. She hadn’t meant to light the lamp, hadn’t even thought about the lamp, specifically. She had only wanted light — and whether it was the Voice prompting her or her own impulse, she didn’t know.

She didn’t know.

The blue gas flame licked the top of the mantle. The valve must be fully open. Had she done that? She’d never moved an object with magic. She hadn’t even thought it was possible.

She slipped out of bed and turned the gas down to a trickle. The flame shrank, and as the lamp dimmed, her initial panic subsided. After all, she’d only lit a lamp. She’d scared herself, but it wasn’t a disaster. Nothing was damaged.

A faint noise came from outside, from the corridor or the cell next-door. Lorie listened until she heard it again, then went to the door and softly opened it.

The corridor blazed with light. Every lamp, the full length of the corridor in both directions, was burning hard.

She shrank into her doorway.

‘Oh dear,’ Grandma said. ‘Morning already?’

Startled, Lorie flinched. The old woman emerged from her cell to stand in the corridor, gazing at the lamps. She wore one of Nana’s flannel nightgowns, which—being made for a shorter and wider woman—hung loose on her. Her legs were very thin and pale.

‘No.’ Lorie took a breath. ‘It’s night. You should be in bed.’

Grandma nodded. ‘That’s good. I thought it was night.’

Lorie gently took her arm. Usually Grandma was quiet and happy, in her slightly unhinged way, as if she drifted over the surface of reality, never quite touching ground.

Sometimes she said strange things. Lorie had learned to ignore these pronouncements, as asking questions often led to Grandma’s angel friend Arakiel, which annoyed Nana because Arakiel wasn’t one of the ninety-nine named angels in the Book of Sammael. Then Nana got cross and tutted and muttered that Grandma wasn’t all there. Lorie suspected that was more true than Nana realised.

She steered the old woman back into her cell. ‘Let’s get you back to bed.’

Grandma patted her arm. ‘Your father will be fine, you know, and your little brother. Don’t worry about them. It’s everything else that will burn.’