Myraden and Pirin both ducked back inside the tent. He pushed the flaps shut.

“The Hand?” Pirin whispered, just to make sure he’d heard right. “He made it up already?”

“I saw what I saw,” Myraden said. “Black coat, red glove. Standing among the prisoners like a rock in a stream, like they were not even there.”

Pirin rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Where was he going?”

“He was not going anywhere. He was blocking the entrance to the labyrinth.”

Pirin trusted her, but he just wanted to get a glimpse for himself. He leaned out the flap of the tent, turning his gaze towards the labyrinth entrance. Sure enough, a dark figure stood in front. Pirin could barely make out the outline, but the blood-red glove stood out clear as day.

Beside the Hand stood his seafolk disciple. Her vibrant orange hair seemed to glow in the flickering flames, and the traces of gills and scales running down her cheeks shimmered—they bent as she scowled.

Both of them had their weapons drawn, as if, at any moment, Pirin could turn up.

He pulled himself back inside the tent. “They aren’t moving, that’s for sure.”

Really? Gray asked, wonder in her voice. Not moving at all? He can swing his sword without moving a muscle, or even breathe? We probably underestimated him…

If that had come from anyone else, Pirin would have assumed they were being sarcastic. But it was Gray, and she sounded earnest.

“I thought he would come looking for us,” said Myraden.

“He doesn’t want to make the same mistakes he did before,” Pirin replied. “But, on the bright side, at least we know where he is?”

“That does not help us much,” she grumbled. “You need a way in.”

“We need a way in.” Pirin crossed his arms. “You’re not getting captured again.”

“Pirin,” she said firmly, turning towards him. “I have lectured you about this before, and I do not need to do it again. You alone are the king of Sirdia. I am nothing. You must make difficult decisions and you must make them now.”

“You’re not nothing,” Pirin said. “You just…haven’t told me what you are or who you are. But I don’t think for one moment you believe that. We’re both wizards. We both need to be trained by Nomad.”

“I can find another way if he does not accept me as a disciple.”

Pirin shut his eyes and let out a long sigh for a few seconds. He had a plan, but he just didn’t like how it sounded. “The Hand and his disciple would recognize you. Are you up for drawing them off?”

“If you command it.”

“Your…uh, your loyalty is terrifying sometimes,” Pirin said, injecting as much confidence as he could into his voice. “I need you to draw them off, away from the entrance, just long enough that I can slip back in. Then I need you to run away and save yourself. There’s no way even you can handle both of them.”

“I will do my very best,” she said, solidifying the haft of her spear with a push of Essence. “Worry about yourself and getting the Reign gems.”

image [https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f3a882_5e221995337243e6a7d4250b55d3aeea~mv2.png/v1/fill/w_280,h_232,al_c,lg_1,q_85,enc_auto/embercore%20sigil.png]

The Hand and Khara paced back and forth in front of the labyrinth entrance. He flicked his sword side-to-side, cutting the air. There were no more rioting prisoners nearby—the crowd had moved on to the camp and started to tear apart the tents.

But the Saltsprays were waking up, and more warriors were springing into action. They contained the looters and rioters in the center of the street, and with every thrust or punch or hack, they felled another.

The Hand wanted to join in and search the crowd, hunting for the black-haired elf. The boy would have used the chaos to escape.

But the heir would have run off into the woods at the first chance he got, like so many of the other prisoners had. Coward, sure. Also made him very annoying. But it meant he couldn’t have been among those still here.

“Shouldn’t we go after him?” Khara asked softly. “We’ll need to search the island, right? He’ll be out there. We’ll have to get started as soon as we can.” She tightened her fists, and glimmering red boar Essence raced along her knuckles. As if in agreement, her boar squealed excitedly.

“You’re too eager for a fight,” the Hand said. “The heir was in the labyrinth, and he was looking for something. He clearly didn’t find it; the Saltsprays grabbed him up before he could. So he will be back, and we will wait.”

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

Khara said nothing for a few seconds, then nodded—either understanding or respect, and the Hand didn’t really care which.

But then, after a few more seconds, she pointed up to the ridge on the far side of the Saltspray camp. “Sir! There!”

A mop of golden-blonde hair and shiny silver armour…

After a second, it pulled back into the undergrowth. Only slivers of it peeked through the bushes, now. The Hand took a step forward, inching away from the entrance. Then, he and Khara sprinted down a few paces—out into the main camp—as if it would help them see better. But as soon as they started running, the last slivers and signs receded, sprinting off into the woods.

There were very few people with blonde hair on this island, and even fewer who knew where the camp was. If it was Myraden Leursyn, then the black-haired elf would be nearby. Maybe she would lead them back to him…

Or maybe she was trying to lure the Hand away.

“The longer we wait, the more chances we give them to spring a trap…” Khara warned.

She could have been right, and that gnawed on him the most. “You go after her. I will stay right here,” he said. “We will cover both bases. If the heir comes in this way, I’ll stop him. If you find him, bring him to me.”

image [https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f3a882_5e221995337243e6a7d4250b55d3aeea~mv2.png/v1/fill/w_280,h_232,al_c,lg_1,q_85,enc_auto/embercore%20sigil.png]

When the Hand and his disciple ran a few steps away from the labyrinth entrance to get a closer look at Myraden, Pirin and Gray seized their chance. It was just enough of a gap to slip through, and the Hand wasn’t watching the edge of the camp.

Pirin and Gray sprinted along the back of the camp wall, stepping as softly as they could. He maintained his veil, just in case the Hand’s disciple could sense him.

By the time he reached the entrance, the seafolk disciple had already run away. She and her boar sprinted down the camp’s central thoroughfare—probably to chase after Myraden. But the Hand still hadn’t budged.

Pirin had partially expected that, but he hadn’t hoped for it. He probably wouldn’t get another opportunity like this, with so much chaos and so much going on, to slip past the Hand unnoticed. Getting out of the labyrinth would be the hard part, but he could worry about that when it came.

The Hand was still looking forward, watching everything going on in the street in front of him. Pirin stepped backwards into the main vestibule of the labyrinth, where the prison pits were. Gray stayed right beside him, curling her talons inward so they didn’t click on the stone.

They kept walking backwards until they reached the thin walkway between the pits. He motioned to Gray with his hand, and they ran. He still rolled his feet so he landed softly, but he was far enough away that the Hand—a regular mortal—couldn’t possibly have heard his footsteps. Not over the chaos outside.

They passed the prison pits. Pirin expected to find another guard or two, but there were none—not alive, at least. In the riots, two more warriors had been killed. The others must have retreated outside.

Or ran deeper into the labyrinth, Gray suggested.

Pirin couldn’t respond without releasing his veil, and he didn’t want to do that until absolutely necessary. But…had Gray been reading his thoughts? Or had he managed to accidentally send some of them to her?

Just accidentally sent some to me. I think. I wasn’t exactly trying to read your thoughts, though I guess I might have. All Familiars can do that, right? I’m pretty sure you’ve said something like that before.

Once they were past the vestibule and into the top network of walkways, Pirin drew his sword and snatched up a torch from a holder on the wall. They would need to head to the east side of this upper level.

He and Gray ran faster. They turned left as soon as they could, running along one edge of the upper square section—just as Hir Venias had described. Other hallways branched away from it, moving to the center of the square, but only this one stayed at the edge.

When it turned, that meant he’d reached a corner of the square. Around the corner, he faced a pair of cowering Saltspray workers. They didn’t move to intercept him; they kept their backs up against the wall. Once he had passed, Pirin commanded, “Turn around and run the opposite direction. Go! And don’t come back here!”

He didn’t need them remembering their loyalty to the sect and getting brave, after all.

This hallway was on the far east side of the upper square entrance tunnels. It had to be the east wing. He ran down to the end, counting his steps in his head (it was a hundred paces from end-to-end) then he turned back and ran the other direction. Once he had doubled back halfway, he figured he was as close to the middle as he could get.

“Alright,” he whispered to himself. “Flood the wall with Essence, huh?”

The Shattered Palm would be perfect for that. He took off his mask, disabling his Reyad and switching to his more powerful offensive techniques.

Once his Essence channels destabilized, he began unleashing Shattered Palms into the wall. He could do five in a row without having to take a break now, so he had to make it count. He unveiled his core and took a deep breath, then blasted a palm-full of Essence into the wall.

The bricks shook and shuddered, and a puff of dust flew back out, choking him. He coughed, waving his hand in front of his face.

Nothing had changed. A few of the rune-lines along the wall had lit up, but aside from them, there was no sign of a secret door.

There was no time to waste. If someone noticed, they’d be after him. He took three steps to the side and tried again. Nothing. One more step. Nothing. He moved to the side again, reading another Shattered Palm.

Before he could unleash the technique, Gray squawked, then grabbed his exposed hair with her beak. She dragged his head to the side a few more paces. The Essence had drifted along a few rune-lines on the wall, but all of them reached a distinct point then just…stopped, as if they had hit a hard ridge. Some Essence even bled upwards in a line, like it was seeping through a very, very thin crack.

“There!” he exclaimed once Gray released him. He turned around and patted her on the neck, then aimed his next Shattered Palm right at the edge of the crack.

Stone shuddered, and a heavy boom rattled down the hallway. Something behind the door cracked, with a much higher pitch, then a slab of stone shifted inwards an inch. The slab ran all the way from the ceiling to the floor, and was twice as wide as his arm span.

“And there’s the secret tunnel,” Pirin said. He shook out his hand, trying to dispel the spiritual ache of the Shattered Palm. “Nomad? You’re listening? Well, you better be listening—and watching.” He pressed his hand against the door and pushed. “I’m going down.”