Myraden knew better than to wait around after showing her face to Khara and the Hand. But especially Khara.

She swung up onto Kythen’s back, and she and the bloodhorn sprinted off down the forested slopes of Dulfer’s Reach. She might not have had an enhanced body like Khara, but Kythen could run fast enough. They would outlast the wizard for a short while.

Now, Myraden and Kythen ran along the shore, trying to get as far away from the camp as they could. But she couldn’t wrap around too far, or she’d risk bringing Khara closer to the Featherflight and giving up their one way off the island.

Kythen’s hooves sloshed through wet white sand and the outflow of waves. Most rushed calmly up the shore and barely touched his hooves, but a few managed to crash up to his ankles. He didn’t budge.

Where are we going? he asked.

Myraden pointed further along the shore, then said in Íshkaben, “Laune.”

Yes, that’s so helpful, said Kythen. ‘Away’ tells me so much.

There was nothing more she could tell him. They just needed to survive now. They’d drawn Khara away from the door and distracted the Hand enough that Pirin could get into the labyrinth, and they had done their duty.

But Kythen, although being difficult, knew exactly what she meant. He kept running, lifting his hooves high to keep them out of the sand. It almost became a prance. He jumped over driftwood, and when they needed to avoid a small ridge of stone, Myraden guided him into the forest at the edge of the beach—but never for long.

The sun was rising over the ocean, burning away the fog. Rays of light blasted right into her face. She raised her hand to shield her eyes, but that didn’t do much good when the sun was so low on the horizon.

And when Khara pounced on them, Myraden almost didn’t see it.

The seafolk woman leapt out of the woods, springing towards Myraden. In a single step, she crossed the gap between the woods and Myraden. Her hand glimmered with boar Essence.

Myraden barely had time to activate the Tundra Veins across the right side of her body before Khara struck. The seafolk woman tackled her off Kythen’s back, using her own fortification technique—on top of an enhanced body.

If Myraden hadn’t used the Tundra Veins, she would have been dead. Or, at least, most of her ribs would have been smashed and her lungs caved in.

As it was, she fell hard on the wet sand, and it didn’t cushion her at all. Kythen let out a bleat of shock, but before he could attack, the boar crashed into him. Khara raised an arm, ruby Essence wrapping around her hand and manifesting as tusks along her knuckles. She drove her fist downwards, but a wave smashed into them, tumbling them both.

When the water receded, Myraden laid on her stomach, sand choking her. She jumped up and locked eyes with Khara. Kythen and the boar circled behind, snarling and bleating at each other.

“Still throwing in your lot with the losing side, huh?” Khara spat. She kept her left arm fortified with Essence, and drew her Dominion-style longsword with her right arm. It was properly called a longsting—all Dominion swords were.

Myraden reached for her spear and pulled it off her shoulder, then formed it up into a solid shaft. “I was never on your side. I never could be.”

“Not after what ‘we did to your people’ or some Eane-foresaken trite like that? Ískan rebelled, and they got what they deserved. Now you will too.”

Myraden took a fighting stance with her spear. She spread her legs and angled the tip down at the sand.

Don’t let her get you riled up, Kythen warned.

“Nie,” Myraden grunted—a simple ‘no’ would suffice.

A mention of her homeland used to be enough to send her into an uncontrollable fury, and the heat still burned in her stomach. But no longer would she charge in without consciousness.

“You had a name for me, back then,” Khara snarled. “When we trained together. When we condensed Essence together, and started on our foundations…”

“Fishy,” Myraden said. “We called you Fishy.”

Khara flourished her sword. “Admit it: you thought I would be the slowest to advance…”

“I never thought that.”

“And look at us now. You’ve stalled, and I’ve grown beyond what anyone else thought I was capable of…”

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Myraden glanced back at Kythen, then took a step towards him. “Kegt?”

I’m ready… he replied.

“Khara,” Myraden said. “Be—”

“Don’t offer me forgiveness!” the seafolk woman spat. “I’m with the Dominion until the day I die, and you aren’t changing that! Your little king boyfriend took Nael from me! I’ll take you from him as punishment—it’ll be the best revenge I can get.”

Myraden fed a touch of Essence into the shaft of her spear, imbuing it with power. “I was going to tell you to be quiet and fight me.”

Khara’s face contorted with anger, and she sprinted forwards.

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Alyus and Brealtod made it back to the Featherflight early in the morning. They had been running all night, and breaks were a luxury for people not on the run from an angry sect and Dominion wizard-hunters.

The airship’s frame was holding together, and the patched-up envelope clung tight to the skeleton—just with a few skinny ribs in between that the gasbags would fill out. They needed to feed this starving dog.

It was a good thing they had gathered the lyftgas barrels before the Saltsprays had captured them.

“I’ll fill her up!” Alyus said, jumping up into the gondola. He ran to the ladder and scurried up to the crew quarters, then to the axial walkwary, where they had kept the canisters of lyftgas. “Brealtod, get the last gasbag sewn up and sealed!”

Brealtod, climbing right behind Alyus, hissed in response.

“I know, I know! Just get your tools and get sewing! I’ll go as fast as I can.”

Again, Brealtod hissed.

“We need to get the old Featherflight in the air before those kids are done in the tunnels! I don’t care if we have to rush it a little!”

When they reached the axial corridor, Brealtod grabbed Alyus’ shoulder. He let out a few more hisses, then a click and a few short, almost vocal intonations.

“Of course I’m doing it for them. I’m gonna see Pirin through this safely! Happy?”

Brealtod nodded.

“Just needed to hear me say it, huh?”

Again, Brealtod nodded.

“Alright, you big oaf. Get us in the air, and we can worry about the other stuff later!”

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The Red Hand waited until the morning for the black-haired elf to show up, but no one did. When the sun began to rise, the Hand was certain that the elf had managed to get inside the labyrinth without him noticing. There had been a single moment when he stepped away from the entrance.

It wasn’t ideal, but even then, the elf had to come out at some point.

If the Hand went in again, the elf had a better chance of dodging him. But if the Hand stayed outside, the elf had a high chance of dying before the Hand could find his head, and all of this would mean nothing.

An hour after the sun rose, Lady Clase and her nephew approached the entrance of the tunnels. They stopped a few steps away from the Hand, and they both bowed until their foreheads touched the dirt.

“We offer you a hundred apologies from every member of the clan,” said Lady Clase. “The elf was trapped and wounded, and there should have been no way for him to escape without the guards killing him.”

“He is stronger than you take him for.” The Hand stepped forwards. His fingers itched on the hilt of his sword, tempted to draw it and slice Lady Clase’s head off her shoulders. For the moment, he restrained himself. The longer he kept the sword in the sheath, the better of a cut it would make—even through a wizard’s skin.

“That’s impossible!” Lady Clase exclaimed. “He’s an Embercore!”

“And I am a mortal.” The Hand shook his head, turning away. “Your punishment is this: enter the tunnels. Find him, and bring him to me, as you should have done before. If you fail, you will die.”

He couldn’t afford to make the same mistake again. He would guard the entrance, and no matter how slippery the elf was, there was nothing that would get past him this way—not in the daylight, and not with the Hand’s full attention on the door.

“If it pleases you, honoured Hand,” Lord Clase, the nephew, began, “will you tell us what we’re up against?”

“Your aunt hasn’t told you anything?” The Hand crossed his arms. He stepped closer to them, but ensured that the entrance to the labyrinth was always in the corner of his vision. “You are dealing with the heir to the Elven Continent. The only one with the power to unite that land and push the Dominion out.”

“She said that much,” the nephew grumbled.

“Respect!” Lady Clase swatted her nephew across the back of the head. “Apologies, Hand.” With a sidelong glance at her nephew, she said, “He doesn’t understand how much…Reign your sword has gathered.”

That last comment, the Hand presumed, was more for her nephew than him. He said, “The heir has the power to twist minds, but only if he can see your eyes. He is learning to call on the memories of the kings before him.”

The nephew jumped to his feet and delivered a half bow, then said, “We will get him for you, Hand, and we won’t fail! That is a Saltspray oath, sealed by my Essence itself. The heir’s ancestors can’t help him now.”

“They aren’t his ancestors,” the Hand said. “Beware: he is different from the other wielders of the Memory Chain. His power…is deeper. It wasn’t inherited—he was made. Do not be cocky. Take him together, no matter how weak you think he is.”

“You think it will take us both to destroy an Embercore?” the nephew exclaimed. “You insult the sect!” A hint of indignance burned behind his eyes. The Hand tightened his grip on his sword, ready to draw it and cut this wizard down where he stood.

“I do, yes,” said the Hand.

Lady Clase put a firm hand on her nephew’s shoulder. “Excuse him. We will do your bidding, Hand.”

“Now that is the proper answer.” The Hand nodded. “Go on, then. Do not fail me.”