“Lord Kovar Tasnyme.”

The Red Hand was halfway across the Aremir estate when a familiar voice called out to him.

He stopped halfway through a step. The ground was rumbling, and flashes of green light shone out in the distance. A few plumes of dust and dirt ripped up over the horizon, blotting out stars and the magenta moons.

At first, he wondered if Nomad had gotten into a fight, but it couldn’t have been.

Nomad was here, and two Wildflames were still fighting somewhere else.

“That was your name once,” Nomad said, his voice whispering across the grassy hills from behind. “I reckon you still know it.”

The Red Hand whirled around, fingers on the hilt of his sword. He could draw in an instant. Even a skilled mortal swordsman could influence Reign given enough practice and time, and the Hand had plenty of practice. If Nomad unleashed a technique, the Hand would cut through it.

“Where are your new disciples?” the Hand demanded.

With a shrug, Nomad said, “I’m stalling for them.”

Forthright as ever. The wizard acted as if he could never tell a lie, as if it was impossible. Turning to Khara, the Hand whispered, “Go! Find them. If they’re here, they’ll be at the palace. I’ll be right behind you.”

With a professional nod, Khara and her boar sprinted off across the estate. Once they were out of earshot, the Hand said, “My disciples against yours, hm?”

If Nomad was stalling, then the Hand was playing right into his designs. But even if the Hand tried to leave, Nomad would stop him.

Nomad shrugged again. “Yours will lose. Pirin and Myraden have advanced greatly since you last saw them.”

“I suppose that’s what happens when you take more than a mortal for a disciple,” the Hand said bitterly.

“It’s what happens when they want more than just death and destruction.”

At that, the Red Hand laughed aloud. “I’ve spent time with Myraden Leursyn. She wants nothing but revenge. How was that any different than me?”

Nomad chuckled. “Old habits die hard. But she’s not truly my disciple. She needs a teacher who knows her ways and…is more alike.”

“So you won’t lift a finger when Khara splits her head?”

Nomad tilted his head, as if undecided. “Well, I’m here with you, now, so I doubt I’d be able to rush to either of my disciples’ aid even if they were in danger.”

“Why are you here, then?”

“Have you considered…stopping? I reckon you’d feel a lot better about yourself.”

“You came here to nag me?”

“Just like old times.” Nomad took a step closer. “Any of little Kovar still in there? Any whispers left of the Seissen boy who begged me to teach him Reign? He wouldn’t have wanted this.” The man’s eyes dropped down. He was staring at the crimson glove.

“I am the Emperor’s enforcer. Rebellion against him is futile.”

“As you learned, time and time again. Too bad you left Seisse after your first failed uprising. You might have spawned more dissidents if you’d just stayed with the cause. When you first came to me, you wanted to fight these bastards.” Nomad took another step closer and flicked the Red Hand’s glove. “But for whatever Eane-foresaken reason, you took my teachings and used them to serve the Dominion.”

The Red Hand swallowed. “I saw my fair share of war. I saw what rebellion did.”

“You rebelled in the name of Seisse.”

“And I turned coat to bring peace to my homeland.”

“Is it peace?” Nomad walked around behind the Hand. “Truly, is it peace? When Dominion soldiers beat peasants in the streets, are the peasants feeling peaceful? When the Dominion cuts down entire neighborhoods, are they being peaceful? How about when the Dominion sends you to hunt an elven heir, and sets you on a trail of destruction and rampage? Is that peaceful, hm?”

“I failed to capture the Heir once before. I will not fail the Emperor again. I will do his bidding, and he will release me from exile. I will finish my last task, then I will fade into the sunset.”

“Young Kovar would never have faded away like this. He would have accomplished his desires and changed the world for the better.”

“People change.”

Nomad narrowed his eyes. “That’s the only reason I’m meeting with you. I believe you can still change.”

The Red Hand wasn’t changing back. It was time the old man accepted this. He drew his sword in a quick arc, the blade flashing through the air, and slashed at Nomad.

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His blade art had been honed for decades. He could match a wizard’s speed. With Reign, he could cut their skin. Their stages and power mattered very little to him. He was outside their advancement, and they hated him for it. Kindling or Wildflame, it made no difference.

Nomad backed away, but not in enough time. The Hand’s blade left a thin slit along his cheek. The man rubbed his face, then held his fingers up to his face. “No one has drawn my blood in a long, long time. But you should have gone for the kill.”

Nomad stomped his foot down, and a great gale gathered behind him. Claws of Essence manifested in it. He thrust his flute-staff straight out like he was stabbing with a spear, and the wind flowed around it, blasting straight out at the Hand with the force of a hurricane.

But the Hand planted his feet and slashed through the technique, splitting the technique with a wedge of Reign. The sword-aura shredded the column of wind into two waves. They smashed into the hills behind him, ripping up the ground and sending plumes of mud hundreds of feet into the air.

The Hand was untouched.

“Would you like to keep stalling with words, or shall I stall in some other way?” Nomad said. “Both would work.”

The Red Hand raised his sword and charged.

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Myraden and Pirin pressed their hands against the round door of the vault. Pirin put his hand at the bottom of the biggest rune, and Myraden put her hand at the top of the top of it. They’d fill it with Essence from opposite directions until it activated.

The rune was nearly twice as big as the rune-locked hatch on Dulfer’s Reach, and there were smaller lines to power beside it, but this time, there were two wizards, and they were both stronger than Pirin had been.

The vault door was only really a final insurance policy. The guards and winding hallways of the palace would’ve done more to protect it from powerful wizards than the vault door would. But such a mechanism—unlocking if one put too much power into it—was for the benefit of the powerful wizards of the estate, venturing in and out of the vault often enough.

“On a count of three,” Pirin said. “One…two…three…push.”

He took a deep breath, then pushed Essence out the palm of his hand. It flooded into the rune, lighting up the bottom of the symbol with pure Essence. Pale blue light manifested in the rune’s shape and flowed up through its tails.

Myraden poured red Essence in from the top, and it swirled down to meet Pirin’s.

Fuelling a massive rune was a test of willpower above all. It took sheer strength to push Essence out of your body and fuel such a rune. It jittered as the palace shook. A boom echoed in the distance as the two Wildflame wizards unleashed a flurry of techniques. Even so far away from the fighting, the ground trembled.

Pirin and Myraden’s Essences met in the middle of the rune, and they swirled around, mixing and popping with violence before turning into a faint shade of magenta. It flowed out into the runes around the edge of the vault door and illuminated spokes of a massive wheel. When it reached the very edge, a mechanism let out a stoney clunk. Puffs of dust shot out from the edges of the door, and when they pushed on it, it swung inward.

The door didn’t touch the ground. Once they got it moving, it was easy enough to push, especially when Pirin activated the Fracturenet and Myraden activated her Tundra Veins.

Once they got it moving, they couldn’t stop it from swinging inward. It slammed against the inside wall of the vault with a boom.

Pirin and Myraden stepped into the vault. It was completely dark inside, but Myraden grabbed a pair of candles from sconces in the hallway. She passed one to him and kept another for herself.

He held the candle up as high as he could, casting the light as far as it could travel. The two Familiars followed them into the vault, plodding along carefully.

What’re we looking for? Gray asked.

The interior of the vault was only about a ten-pace wide square with thick stone walls and a low ceiling. Pirin had to duck under bracing beams along the ceiling.

At first, he might have mistaken it for a wine cellar. Kegs lined the walls and slotted into lattice shelves in the wall. Most of the compartments for kegs were empty.

Pirin ran over to the nearest keg. “The Ichor-ink has to be in one of these somewhere…”

He turned the keg’s spigot just enough to let a drip of liquid flow out. A viscous, vibrant green drop fell onto the ground, sizzling and popping with spiritual energy. It was some kind of elixir?

“What does the ink look like?” Pirin asked.

Probably gold, if I had to guess, said Gray. Gold like Ichor. Oh…wait. You were talking to Myra, weren’t you?

“Yeah,” Pirin whispered.

“It should look similar to Ichor,” Myraden said. “But it will glow brighter, and it will be a lighter shade—almost yellow–white. You should feel an immense spiritual pressure coming from it, greater than any other elixir.”

Then he needed to use his senses. “You check that side of the room,” he said. “I’ll check this side.”

He activated his spiritual sight and concentrated on the shelf. Each keg glowed almost as bright as a sun in his sight, and he wanted to stop perceiving it—he wanted to go back to normal vision. But he didn’t let himself. He needed to know which kegs were prime options.

The sight wouldn’t narrow it down beyond prime options, though, but his core resonated differently with each barrel. Some pushed it away, as if blasting a layer of sand off a desert, and some tried to pull it toward them like water pouring down a drain.

There was only one barrel that pressed down on his core when he drew near it, like gravity had just doubled in its presence. In his spiritual sight, it appeared slightly more golden than the others.

“Myraden!” he called, blinking and setting his sight back to normal. “This is it!”

He opened the spigot just enough to let a drop of liquid pour out. It was exactly as she described it—a white-gold mixture. When the droplet hit the ground, it let out a glassy ping and sent sparks flying all across the room.

She ran across to him, holding a fabric bundle in her arms. “That is it.”

“What do you have?” Pirin asked.

She unfolded the bundle of fabric, revealing a set of silver devices that looked like miniature chisels. Miniscule runes ran in circles around them. Off to one side of the bundle was a small wooden mallet with horse-head carvings all along its handle and head. “Engraving equipment.”

Oh, you better take your mask off when you start…uh, doing whatever you’re going to do with that, Gray said. I don’t want to feel it at all!

“We might have to if we want to complete the runebond properly,” Pirin said. “But we have a while yet before we have to worry about that.”

You’ll use the Whisper Hitch to make me not feel anything, though, right?

“I should be able to—”

Before he finished, Kythen let out a loud bleat. Myraden’s head snapped toward the vault entrance, where Kythen stood.

She said, “Someone is coming.”