Leith needed to break another one just to be certain.

He laid his cloak over the next wooden step. It was one of many leading up to the temple of Malhayar. His blood coursed through his veins like rapids in his body, crashing against his chest as his heart pumped and his arm reared to prepare for another blow.

The wood beneath his mounded cloak gave way with a spidery crack as his fist slammed into it. The shock traveled through Leith’s arm and he flexed his fingers briefly. Despite having picked out the most dilapidated steps, he would still feel the effect of smashing things with his bare fist once his bloodlust cooled. For now his hand seemed to be in working order.

He shook out the cloak before he put it back on and tested the step with his foot. It bowed with the slightest pressure, the beginnings of a groan of protest. Satisfied, Leith hopped over it and ascended to where the temple waited.

The ocean glimmered across the horizon. A pale moon, torn in slivers by the breaking waves, shone up at its whole counterpart in the sky. The stars seemed closer and larger in this part of the world. The night seemed more complete, a heavy shroud of sleep drawn over the small village.

The lancers, in particular, would be holed up in their boarding house, deep in their shade-laced cups, and soon dead to the world outside. Most would miss their shifts in the morning, narrowing down the locations Leith had to cover, leaving him to personally watch over the quiet temple.

Up on the final landing, the temple of Malhayar almost glowed in the light of the moon.

Leith pictured the temple’s rooms, darker now than as he’d seen them earlier: the front office whose window had opened with the faint smell of orange blossoms; the armoire within, open to display a steel suit of cuirass. The office belonged to Alenna Darnett if he had gauged the size of the armor correctly, along with the haphazard penmanship in her record keeping.

He knew where everyone ate, slept, and bathed. In the back of the temple was a living area with a hearth and a backdoor that led to the point of the peninsula. There the air was biting with no shelter from the wild wind.

Leith walked the perimeter of the landing along the dry stone wall. On this side of the temple, he had a view of what the locals called Tualakh Bay, a small inlet where the water was crystal clear. Palms clustered thickly along the water’s edge.

Just beyond the tall and narrow trunks, two barges were moored in the bay, one dark and the other dimly lit by a small flickering flame within its circular window. He lingered to watch as shadows passed over the light. The barge’s subtle rocking sent soft ripples over the water. Once he took notice, the light soon extinguished. Leith let out a sigh and moved on.

The Order and its wards had littered the ocean side with equipment. Leith looked upon their disorganization with disdain. He ran a finger of the dulled edge of a halberd and it came away with crusted salt. The weapon racks were worn and well on their way to deterioration because of the humidity and the unforgiving weather of a desert coast. Nevertheless, they made good footholds for Leith to haul himself up onto the temple roof.

The wet stone was rougher than it looked; a blessing to help him up onto the rooftop and to keep from slipping off completely, a curse for how uncomfortable it was to rest upon.

He kept himself low, pressed up against the large dome, so that his silhouette would not show against the temple’s profile. Land and sea stretched out before Leith, and he knelt there, breathless from the expanse of water on one end and sand on the other. The purple-hued dunes of the Sahran, which the camel merchants so kindly translated for him as the “desert between towns”, rose and fell from Penth to the distant shape of Thelos’ skyline.

With his back to the sea, Leith settled in for the night, one arm draped over the slope of the dome. It was slick with rainwater with a black hole in its center. He considered that he could be there until daybreak with no sign of his target. Then Leith would face the dilemma of having to trail the Protectorate without being seen and intercept the spellknife with enough time to search the body for what he came for.

The prospect left a horrible taste in his mouth. He wanted nothing to do with the wardens.

Though the walls of the temple still radiated the warmth it had absorbed from the day, Leith fastened his cloak around his shoulders, letting it drape over his crouching form. Better a black stain on the white stone than blood red.

Taking off his jacket was never an option. Leith would rather risk giving his identity away than to chance a column of fire incinerating him to death or, even worse, some cursed enchantment to ruin his long life. Spellknives were bastards like that, thinking they have everyone’s threads slipping over their fingers.

Leith brushed at his thick moustache and rubbed his jaw where the troublesome stubble had already grown an aggravating length, scratchy against even his calloused fingers. His own face had always shaved smooth, and he preferred it that way. Ianh had always struggled with his beard, the stubborn thing shadowing his brother’s face before the sun crested the sky. Growing up, Leith had always envied it but the past two weeks only made him pity the man.

He wasn’t sure how long the woven disguise would last. With the new face, Leith also suffered slight changes to his body, nothing too drastic; Delain, the man whose features he had stolen, was larger than Leith. It took the better part of a week for Leith to keep from clipping his shoulder on doorways and tripping over his own legs; minor inconveniences like accidentally biting his tongue when he ate.

Leith preferred for it be over soon, perhaps no later than after he’d taken care of the spellknife—what a dream it would be to stick the man in the guts, procure what he came for, and poof—like a fairytale, Leith would get his old familiar features back.

He smiled at the thought.

Magic rarely worked so neatly.

When the black moon had completely crept across its pale counterpart, making like a bale eye and pupil tracking something across the land, he heard the telltale crash of wood. It wasn’t as loud as he imagined it would be from up on the temple roof. But he heard it nonetheless, and he fell prone against the flat roof of the temple.

A powerful gust of wind blew upwards, carrying a man into the air. Beneath the figure’s cowl, the moon highlighted a snow-white face and black holes for eyes. The airborne man threw his arms wide with a jerk of his limbs. His jacket unfurled and the excess fabric drew tight against the strong headwind rising beneath him.

Leith waited for the spellknife to glide over, drawing a throwing knife from his bandolier. He would have to act quickly. A knife to the throat—a tough shot but one Leith could confidently make under normal conditions—he had been paying close attention to the air, its fickle currents and the humidity.

But he hadn’t accounted that his quarry was attuned to the wind. The currents were now altered, unpredictable to Leith. He wouldn’t know which way the wind would blow or if the spellknife was adept enough to just redirect the projectile right back to its owner.

The spellknife was adept, however it was to his undoing. He had given himself just enough height and momentum to take him straight to the doors, coming just shy of the temple roof. A head or two higher and their eyes could have squarely met.

Leith couldn’t help but grin as he rolled over the lip of the roof.

Twisting himself feet first, he clasped his cloak tight to his body; he landed behind the spellknife with the announcement of a soft flutter.

The spellknife’s eyes widened, but he was already reaching for the knife sheathed at his forearm. Leith wrapped an arm around his throat. He hadn’t landed with an advantage to drive his weapon into the man’s back so Leith did the next best thing and pulled the man’s head back, arm pressed across the spellknife’s vocal cords.

The pale sliver of an exposed throat stirred Leith; called for him to just jam the knife into the spellknife’s neck. His knife flashed in the light where it came close, just scraping over skin as he stayed his hand. There would be too much blood. A blasphemous thought to Leith but there they were. He needed it to be clean. He needed it to be silent.

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A blast of air had the two of them staggering back. Leith heard the slide of steel on leather and the sharp edge of a knife bit into his forearm.

He let out a quiet laugh, could almost taste his own blood in the air as he let the bloodlust seep into his body.

The man choked for breath before Leith tightened his hold and squelched the man once again. His fingers twitched at the thought of ripping the spellknife’s throat out. The blood that would enrobe his hands as flesh tore thrilled him.

They slammed into the temple wall together, bouncing off the corner toward the cliff edge. The wind roared in Leith’s ears, or maybe it was the blood in his head. He grit his teeth, refusing to let go, even as the air lashed at his cheeks and felt as if they were about to be flayed off.

His cloak twisted in the unnatural gale, turning itself into a noose drawn tight by some unseen hand. It dragged Leith and Leith dragged the spellknife along with him, two pairs of feet shuffling and digging heels deep into dirt and dust.

If they hit the wall, he and the spellknife would go tumbling off into the ocean. Maybe hit a few choice rocks on the way. Leith couldn’t let go of the spellknife to unclasp his cloak so he threw his body against the wind, twisting the two of them in an effort to bash the man’s head into the wall.

The noose around his neck slackened—possibly when the other man realized they were about to tumble headlong into the sea—and the two of them careened down the cluttered aisle of land between temple and bluffs.

The spellknife slipped away from him for just a moment. A fortunate error. Leith lunged after the man, driving the knife right into his lower back where it would skewer a kidney.

Staggering toward the temple window, the spellknife’s hands slapped over the stone frame, back arched as he opened his mouth to scream—but Leith twisted the knife with an amused smile and he only emitted a sharp wheeze.

Leith jerked the spellknife backward by the collar, driving him further onto the knife, twisting it even more as he did so. The two of them stood beside the window, out of sight, Leith pressed against the wall and the spellknife tight against him, the dagger deep in the man’s bowels.

The spellknife’s life slowly ebbed away from him as the wind did. Blood soaked into Leith’s clothes, running down his breeches, warm and then chill against his skin. The throat that pulsed and throbbed beneath his hand stilled. They slid to the ground, and the body flopped away from Leith and landed in the thick grass with a thud. The white mask slipped from the man’s face. Dark eyes stared glassily at the night sky.

Leith ripped the dead man’s coat open, fingers prying away at metal buckles. He forced his eyes to gloss over pale flesh that seemed so luminescent in the moonlight. Pushing away the urge to dive into the man’s belly with his knife and wet his tongue on the blood, he searched through every pocket, every crevice of the man’s clothing. The spellknife had crescents, a healthy amount for someone traveling abroad. Horizon paid his men well.

In addition to the coin, Leith found several blades throughout the man’s body, strange ones with no hilt and a slight S-shaped curvature. Another one that looked like half of a pair of scissors. Then the typical bone pommel knife he’d find on any spellknife.

There were plenty of paper scraps, all written in some gibberish code, that he quickly stuffed into the inner pockets of his jacket. But after a thorough search, Leith couldn’t find what he came for.

He rose from the ground slowly as if some desperation tied him to the corpse and wanted him to stay knelt there searching the body again for some clue he missed.

Leith didn’t have the time, and he knew that he had found all there was to find. The spellknife carried little on him. He tried to recall if the man even had a pack, and if he did, where it could be stowed.

Leith glanced over to the window. Among the pile of girls, the blanket lay flipped open, revealing a soft depression in the bedding. The tall ward was missing.

He bent over to lift the spellknife, cradling the man’s lanky body between his arms. He needed to dispose of it quickly. His eyes brushed over the wall, the faint sounds of the sea calling. Leith carried the man over to the edge of the cliff. A quick and easy solution. And not a very flawed one.

He drew on his unnatural strength, felt his blood rush to his head, and hurled the body over the edge. Leith allowed himself a brief moment to watch it tumble clear through the air and sink into the churning waters. He didn’t want to have to climb down there if the body landed on the rocks.

Satisfied with his work, he vaulted back over the wall. The cloak around his neck fluttered in an updraft and for a moment, Leith was almost convinced that the spellknife wasn’t dead. Or maybe the spellknife’s spirit had already gotten lost, and immediately taken to haunting Leith for the rest of his days.

He ripped at the clasp, but before he could unfasten it, a moving shadow caught his eye. It stretched across the rustling grass, distorted and humanoid. She was outside. Now he gripped his cloak close, glancing at the front landing. He wouldn’t be quick enough to make it away.

Instead, he ducked amongst the cluttered wreckage stowed against the walls. Leith pressed himself against the temple, almost hoping that the stone and shadows would swallow him whole. He could still smell the blood on his clothes and the tackiness of it between his fingers where it dried on his skin.

Her head came first. A single eye glittered in the moonlight and then the other. He ducked his head low and cast his gaze at the ground so that the moon would not catch the whites of his own eyes. For a moment, Leith could have sworn that she looked right at him.

He should kill her. His heart thudded against his ribs as his blood rushed through his body screaming for her blood.

When she stepped around the corner, Leith dug his heels into the soft dirt, gripping the handle of a knife. She moved cautiously. Had she heard his struggle with the spellknife? Had she seen him? The girl didn’t seem prepared, still dressed in a long nightshirt that ended mid-thigh. She had strong legs.

Leith tensed when she pulled a staff from the weapon rack.

He didn’t want to consider the implications of killing a ward of the sands, the Protectorate’s own daughter. Didn’t want to think of how attached to the girl Alenna Darnett would be, raising her from infancy.

But Leith would kill her if he had to.

As she slowly advanced, a strong wind picked up, and she hesitated. Her long dark hair striped her face, and he took that moment to slink within the shadows so that his back was to the girl, pressed against the crates. She struggled with her hair until it flowed behind her like a dark river.

When she moved, those long legs stretched and consumed the space between them. Leith inhaled sharply. His hand flexed on the grip of his bloody knife.

He could see her—

supine before him, pliant—

weeping as he licked the blood from her open belly.

Only she stopped short, just on the other side of him. A small huff escaped her lips, and he could sense the adrenaline in her, the way it came out trembling. She was so close that he could feel her presence prickling his skin. As if every breath she took, she shared with him.

The bloodlust still ran through his veins. It was roaring through him now, pounding in his head. His arousal hot and unabated.

The ward’s footsteps were loud to Leith, as if the snap and crunch of her heel over the grass were directly on his heart. He dared to peer further over the crate, almost hoping that she would catch him and force his hand. Her back was to him. Her hair drifted softly in the breeze.

If she had heard the splash of the spellknife hitting the water, it could prompt an investigation. He wondered if she would risk the treacherous path down to the base of the bluffs this late at night. Or would she take her father down there to search the area?

Leith considered killing the girl anyway. It could be over in an instant. A simple shove and she’d go tumbling over to join the spellknife in the water. But as he watched her, those muscular legs, the toned shadows of her calves, the ends of her hair just brushing over the tops of her buttocks, Leith found that it would have been a waste.

He would much rather have had the time to enjoy her death. To feel his hands ripping at her soft breasts and reveling in her warm blood. He’d want to taste her as his teeth tore into her lips. Then watch the horror shine in her eyes before his thumbs plunged into the sockets, the pain hollowing her cheeks.

Leith closed his eyes, his head thumping softly against the crates behind him. A strong wind tousled his hair and it might have been cold if Leith hadn’t been burning with his unnatural lust. His desire for her ate at him while he waited.

She stood for some time, watching the water, unaware of his presence, not realizing that all of this time he was standing a couple strides away, painfully aware of hers.

“His name was Reece Walcott. Spellknife of the Ebon Blade. Head researcher of the Conduit: Alchemy Quarter, Apostle of the House of Mercy, Benefactor of the Blue Jay Orphan Home.”

“While fate has pulled their thread, our beloved friends and family will be respun into the weave that runs through us all.”

“Into the earth that nourishes us.”

“Into the water that sustains us.”

“Into the flames that warm our hearts.”

“And into the wind that set our eyes on the horizon.”