Pirin kept his back as close to the wall as he could as he slipped out into the open air—and into the Saltspray camp. He stuck to the shadows and held his breath, veiling his spirit in case Lady Clase was paying attention.

He had no idea where they were keeping Gray or his belongings, but it had to all be outside. As far as he could tell, they never sent animals or extra workers into the tunnels at night. Only certain crews delved deep, and they weren’t the prisoner crews.

Pressing himself against the outer wall of the canyon that the camp nestled in, he slipped around the edge, hunting for stables of some sort. He held his breath and kept everything tight and restricted. If Lady Clase sensed him getting close to her, she would react immediately.

When he was halfway across the camp, the shouting began. Prisoners leaked out of the labyrinth entrance, spilling out into the camp with their torches and stolen weapons.

Pirin hadn’t expected them to riot, but it drew all eyes towards the labyrinth and away from him.

He moved faster. He pushed away from the outer edge of the ravine and ran, though he still kept to the shadows. There was no need to keep quiet; the shouts and panicked cries of the guards drowned out the crunching gravel beneath his feet.

When he reached the end of the ravine, he looked across. On the other side, two tents down, was a slightly larger tent with wagons outside it. Its entrance flap was open, and inside, there were a few wooden stalls—each with a horse beyond them.

“There,” Pirin whispered to himself. If that wasn’t a stable, he didn’t know what else would be.

Plus…when he pushed his consciousness down to his core, he thought he could feel a faint tug. Something else with a core was in there.

In theory, he could form a Reyad with any creature that had a core to latch onto. But few creatures had a core. Familiars drank Ichor before forming a bond with a wizard, and that began the formation of their core Essence sea. If they hadn’t been fed Ichor, or if they didn’t have a fully formed core like Gray did, there was nothing he could do.

Granted, without his mask, he couldn’t form a Reyad at all. But he’d worry about that later.

He slipped between two tents, then glanced back and forth down the camp’s thoroughfare. Warriors and workers—sect workers, not prisoners—streamed out of the tents and sprinted down to the labyrinth entrance to help contain the escape. No one was looking back at Pirin.

He darted across the thoroughfare and slipped into the stable tent. A single lantern lit it, swaying back and forth in the slight breeze. The horses whinnied. Pirin tried shushing them, but that just made them neigh louder.

He ran down the center of the tent, his feet slipping on the scattered hay and straw…and birdseed.

In the far corner, Gray cowered in a stall. A net had been draped all around it to prevent her from hopping over the fence (the fence might have been enough to stop a horse, but it wouldn’t stop a gnatsnapper) and a rope had been tied around her ankle.

Pirin ripped the net down, then pushed the stall’s gate open and ran inside. First, he wrapped his arms around Gray’s neck and pressed his head into her feathers. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…I wish I could have gotten out sooner to help you…”

She let out a soft rumble, almost like a cat purring, then gently placed her beak on top of his head.

He doubted she knew what he was saying, but that was alright.

Pirin turned, ready to run back out into the camp and go searching for his belongings, when he paid attention to all the other stalls. The horses were already agitated, and freeing them would only add to the chaos—and it’d make it easier for Pirin to go unseen.

With Gray following close behind him, he unlatched all the stalls, until he reached the very end—where a bloodhorn waited, occupying a stall instead of a horse.

That had to be Kythen, Myraden’s Familiar. If it was still alive, then so was she.

As soon as Pirin unlatched the bloodhorn’s cell, it trotted out. But, instead of following the horses, it plunked itself firmly in the center of the stable, blocking the way.

Pirin tried to shift to the left. Kythen shifted too. He tried to move to the right. Kythen did the same.

“I need to get out,” Pirin whispered to Kythen.

But it didn’t matter. Even if he had a Reyad with Kythen, the creature didn’t understand Low Speech.

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Kythen bleated softly. Pirin tried to slip under him, sliding between his legs, but the bloodhorn dropped down to its knees before Pirin could get anywhere.

Finally, after a half-minute of trying to get past the bloodhorn—after pleading and begging the beast, and even trying to send Gray one way while he went the other—someone shouted something in Íshkaben.

Myraden.

Her bloodhorn turned to the side, moving enough that Pirin could slip through. He took a step, but before he could make it any further, Myraden appeared in the entrance of the stable tent.

“Thank you for keeping him here, Kythen,” Myraden said, probably solely for Pirin’s benefit. She ran into the tent, holding a salt-tipped spear. As far as Pirin could tell, she was unharmed—at least, no more than she had been when they parted. Her antlers had fallen out, but it was spring and that was natural for a sprite, and she just wore her sleeveless gambeson.

Just to be safe, though, he asked, “Are you alright?”

“I am fine.”

“Is anyone with you?” he questioned. “Are you veiling yourself?” He was starting to sound like she did with all his pestering, but he had to make sure.

“Lady Clase will not sense me,” Myraden said.

“We need to get back into the labyrinth.” He stepped towards the doorway and leaned out. The prisoners streamed through the camp, running back and forth across the camp. The warriors and guards were gathering, pushing back anyone who tried to cause trouble in the camp itself. They couldn’t stop anyone from running off into the woods. Hopefully, Alyus and Brealtod had made it out.

“The chaos won’t last long,” Pirin continued. “If we don’t get going, we’ll never make it.”

“Wait, Pirin, just for one minute,” Myraden said. “Did you get my note?”

“I did. I spoke with Hir Venias, and he told me…sorta where to look for the secret tunnel.”

“He must have really taken a liking to you,” Myraden mumbled. Then she asked, “ ‘Sorta’? What does that mean?”

Pirin tilted his head. He didn’t want to be disrespectful, but… “Like…uh, the word itself, or—”

“Did he tell you, or did he not?” she snapped.

“He said it’d be on one of the outer tunnels, exactly in the center of the hallway. But…if it’s a square, there are four outer tunnels, and I figure they’ll catch me before I find it.”

“The east side,” Myraden said. “We narrowed it down that much. Check there first, and you will likely find it.”

He looked back at her and nodded. “Thanks. Now…I just need to find my stuff. They put it somewhere. But without a sword, I won’t be much good at proving my Reign…”

“No, you will not.” She leaned out the edge of the tent beside him. “They brought my armour and spear up to…” She pointed out into the street, then lifted her finger to a tent with barrels and crates surrounding it. Some were open, and there were golden trinkets inside—just beyond the brim of the crates. “Your equipment will likely be there, too.”

“If it hasn’t already been packaged up…” Pirin muttered.

“I mean no offense, but your sword would not be their top priority.”

It wasn’t exactly a fancy sword, Pirin knew that much. But as he thought about it, he was more worried about the umberstone mask—that was probably the most valuable thing he owned.

He and Myraden sprinted across the street, keeping their heads low. When they reached the tent Myraden had pointed to, they ducked inside. The Familiars followed them inside—though Kythen barely fit, and his horns ripped the fabric.

Inside the tent, there were two unarmed workers loading a box. Myraden pointed her spear at them. “Back away,” she commanded. “Hands up.”

“They’ll tell Lady Clase we were here,” Pirin whispered.

With a quick swish, Myraden reversed her grip on the spear and struck both of the workers on top of their heads with a single clunk. Both crumpled, unconscious.

Without another word, she pushed over crates and ripped open barrels—she was probably looking for her own equipment.

Pirin didn’t waste another second, either. He scoured the tables and opened boxes. Most were filled with simple gold and crystal items from inside the labyrinth, and most of it was probably decorative. But, near the bottom of a stack, he uncovered his umberstone mask. Someone had gingerly wrapped it in a strip of cloth, and the runes were untouched.

Since Pirin had been keeping himself veiled, his channels were relaxed and ready to form a Reyad. He pressed the mask on and against his skin. The runes flared to life, glowing blue, and the globs of Ichor in his veins dissolved. Everything straightened out.

This time, forming the bond only made his knees buckle for a few seconds. He’d gotten that much better?

Good to have you back! Gray chirped—even inside his mind, it almost sounded like a gnatsnapper’s song. She, however, didn’t make any noise. She was too busy tipping over crates and ripping apart the room.

But the hard part was done. Pirin found his sword and scabbard on a rack along the far edge of the tent, nestled in amongst a few other rusting weapons that the Saltsprays didn’t seem interested in. His haversack, with its contents still in it, had been tucked behind the rack—forgotten about, maybe.

Myraden let out a cry of delight. When Pirin turned around, he spotted her holding up her armour—or, what little of it remained. A single pauldron, the upper part of a cuirass, a vambrace and a greave. Streaks of rust ran across it, like it hadn’t been maintained for years, but when she strapped it on, the rust flaked off immediately, and the armour seemed to adjust to her form again, making slight changes.

She picked up her spear soon after, and twirled it around confidently.

“Ready?” Pirin asked. “I’ve got all I need.” As soon as he said that, though, he realized he was still wearing the salt-knuckles he had stolen from a guard. He pulled them off and dropped them back on the table.

“I am ready,” Myraden said. She approached the door and leaned outside, and it looked like she was about to take a step, but she gasped, then immediately pulled her head back inside. “Not good.”

“Not good? What is it? You can’t just say—”

“The Hand is back. And his disciple is with him.”