A few mornings later, when Pirin woke up, he found a slip of parchment wedged between the bars of his cell.

As quickly as he could, he snatched it up. Hopefully no one else had seen—he was sharing the cell with five other prisoners, and Saha’i still visited frequently.

His first thought was that the note came from Nomad. But Nomad was down in the pit as well, and he could have visited in-person if he had wanted. There was no need for him to leave a note.

Besides, it had been folded up into the shape of a glider.

Pirin pushed himself off the cot and wandered out of the cell—into the center of the pit. There, he looked up at the rim of the pit, trying to see if there was anyone up top who could have thrown the note down to him.

There was a pair of Saltspray guards patrolling, and even then, he could barely make out their features. But…it still probably came from up top.

Pirin unfolded the note and turned so the morning light from the edge of the pit shone on it.

Captured. Looking for direct tunnel into the labyrinth. Will get us deeper faster. Maybe directly to Reign gems. Tell you when I know more. Look for more notes.

Gray and Kythen are safe.

* M

Pirin sighed. He should have just opened the note sooner. That would’ve solved the mystery of who sent it.

At least, for now, the Familiars and Myraden were safe. He;d take whatever wins he could get.

And so, much like yesterday, he began a strict, regimented schedule for his time. He had to make the best use of it he possibly could. Before breakfast, and before the rest of the prisoners left, he began his physical exercises. There was no point in trying to climb out of the pit if he stayed as weak as he was at the moment.

Elves might have been doomed to be slightly scrawny, but Pirin didn’t need to be the biggest or bulkiest. Just…improve himself. Be better than he was yesterday.

So that was when the workout began: jog a few laps around the bottom of the pit to warm up. Then, he returned to his cell and wedged his feet under the door. Fifty sit-ups—break—fifty pushups—break—back to the situps; fifty more—break—and back to the pushups.

By then, the guards brought food, and Pirin ate as much as they’d let him, even if it was only stale bread and some dried meat.

Then he did one more round of exercises while the guards brought the rest of the prisoners away for a day of labouring in the tunnels—or, as Myraden had called it, the labyrinth.

At midday, when the pit was quiet and empty, tiny stone wraiths tended to enter the pit. Their pebbly forms emerged from cracks in the wall that were much too small for people to fit through. When the wraiths made it to the bottom of the pit, the two guards left to watch Pirin didn’t seem concerned.

Nor should they have been. These wraiths were incredibly weak and tiny, and they could barely take the shape of their larger brethren for more than a few seconds. Pirin could have taken them on with his bare hands, he figured, and the first time he’d seen one, he did. He punched and kicked it, ripping apart its form before it could rematerialize, then stomped out its remains.

But that wasn’t good enough practice.

He made sure to practice his Shattered Palm against the next few wraiths he encountered. He got close to the guards, but not close enough that they’d be suspicious, and he used their eyes and minds to launch the technique. As long as he didn’t directly point his hand at them, he should be free from suspicion.

It would be easy enough to defeat the two non-wizard, mortal guards, assuming he had a few Shattered Palms ready. But the ladder wasn’t down, and he wasn’t ready to climb out yet—nor did he have an escape plan for once he was up.

He tried to experiment with the Shattered Palm’s range. It had such incredible destructive power when it was inches away from the surface of the hand, but the wave of pale blue Essence still had some effect (diminishing, of course) on the wraiths up to a few yards away from him.

He tried sweeping his hand outward as he unleashed the Shattered Palm, guiding the Essence in a contained arc away from him. It didn’t lose as much potency when he launched it in an arc, but neither did it have as much sheer power to begin with. Instead of blasting the wraiths’ pebbles all across the bottom of the pit, it only split them in half, and he had to clean them up with his bare hands afterwards.

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But his extensive use of the Shattered Palm also required extensive breaks.

In his breaks, he harvested Essence and triggered the Memory Chain. It didn’t seem to put nearly as much strain on his spirit. Compared to the raw output of the Shattered Palm, the Chain’s strain felt negligible.

Either way, the break was also necessary to recover the Essence that he was expelling—and using the Memory Chain just made his harvesting faster. Sitting down in the center of the pit, cross-legged, he began.

When he first triggered the Bloodline, he used far too much power and flung himself all the way back to the chain’s beginning. Visions of Hir Venias, the creator of the Bloodline and the first king of Sirdia, whirled before Pirin’s eyes.

Pirin drew his Essence back, pulling himself towards the present at a breakneck pace. He flooded his Essence with thoughts about swords and sword training.

A few times, he caught flashes of the kings and queens before him learning to use elven blades, or of desperate battles against hundreds of opponents. But it was rare, and he wasn’t directing the chain as much as he could be.

He needed a feeling to latch onto—something to cram into the Essence and direct the Chain, like what he had for Mr. Regos.

Whenever he let his past instincts take over and wield his sword for him, he felt a little confidence mixed with a touch of fear. When he had humbled the Silversword school, there was pride in his abilities. When he had fought the Red Hand, there was only axiety and the knowledge that he wasn’t strong enough.

He was the sword of his kingdom, a powerful wizard meant to dominate on the front lines. His weapons should embody that.

All at once, he poured his will to improve into the Essence, with tinges of confidence and fear—

And before he could feed it to the Chain, his Essence rebelled, throwing him out.

He fell flat on his back, panting. After a few seconds, he grumbled, “Embercore…” then sat up and tried again.

He gave the Chain a touch of Essence—just enough to push him back through a year or two of his own memories. He filled his Essence with the same feelings he had a moment ago, and the images shifted.

It brought him back to the first time he had ever seen his sword. Another man wielded it: the Scarling, with long dark hair and purple eyes. Otherwise, he looked like any other man Pirin had seen.

But the purple-eyed man wore silver elven armour, with flowing, leaf-shaped pauldrons. A cloak of Sirdian-blue fabric floated behind him as he spun his sword in complex patterns, weaving a basket of steel around himself. He batted away Dominion spears and swords. A wooden structure blazed behind him, turning a blizzard’s worth of snowflakes to steam.

And Pirin could only watch with awe—in the memory, and with his present mind.

If there was a swordsman who could stand up to the Red Hand, it was this man.

Kalénier. That was what Myraden had called him.

In the memory, Kalénier defeated the soldiers, then grabbed Pirin’s arm and dragged him away from the fire—deep into the alleyways of a city.

“I am Kalénier,” he had said, as if he still needed an introduction, “Sword of the Chancellor. It is my duty to bring you to safety.”

“But…you’re a man!” Pirin had exclaimed. “Out here, men are only mercenaries!”

“I am many things.” Kalénier had looked Pirin directly in the eyes, his purple irises growing more and more intense. “There is only one question you must ask: do you want to live, or do you want to die?”

“Live, sir.”

“Then come with me.”

Pirin pulled his eyes open and dragged his Essence away from the Memory Chain. For a brief moment, he thought he sensed a pale white chain link of sinewy Essence alongside his soul, but he wasn’t sure.

For the rest of the day, he didn’t manage to land back on that specific memory, but he’d seen glimpses of that scene before. It was the day he had been tested for a Reyad—that much, he was certain of. Same snow, same crowded streets, same chaos and same fire.

As he trained himself against the stone wraiths, he tried putting the pieces together in the back of his mind. He had been born on the Dominion-occupied island of Kerstel—hidden—and raised by a healer, then the Dominion had come and tested him for a Reyad. He had failed. This man, Kalénier, had dragged him away and brought him…back to Sirdia, presumably?

By the time Pirin’s arms felt like they were going to fall off and his channels were so sore that he thought he’d risk permanent spiritual damage, the rest of the prisoners were returning from their day of searching the caverns.

Ten extra guards accompanied them down, and for a brief moment, Pirin entertained the idea of trying to overpower them and climb up the ladder himself.

But one of the guards would get out a warning. They’d cut the ladder at the top, and Pirin would be stuck.

After the guards brought dinner, Pirin spent his evening helping Saha’i tend to the wounded prisoners. Pirin explained to the man his past as a healer, and truly, he wanted to help. But he also wanted to test how his retention of Mr. Regos’ lessons had worked—was a single use of the Memory Chain enough to restore all his healing knowledge back into his conscious mind?

Short answer: no, it wasn’t.

But it was enough to restore his basic healing knowledge. When he fastened a bandage, he didn’t have to let his instincts take over when he tied a knot. When he washed and cleaned wounds, he didn’t have to shut his eyes and let his hands do whatever they wanted. When he went to select herbs, he knew precisely which ones to use, even if he couldn’t recall the specific lesson where Mr. Regos had taught him.

It’d take a little more work, but that was nothing new. At least now, he knew how to get there.