Pirin didn’t have much room to get himself comfortable, but between the warmth of Gray’s feathers, his coat, and the gently flickering candle, he managed to put himself to sleep—all while cycling his Essence.

He was quite proud of the feat, really. A lot had to go right. And now, he’d drag and purify Essence at twice the normal rate.

He dreamt, and the Memory Chain offered him glimpses of Kerstel.

It showed him a few more pleasant outings with Mr. Regos, and even a glimpse of flying gnatsnappers along the coast with…another boy, Tanillar, a fisherman’s son. They came in flashes and passed quickly.

But then the memories began to linger. His breathing grew heavier, and his Essence purified faster.

He remembered the middle of spring. It was years ago, when a heavy storm crashed on the island’s shore. He ran along the shore, heading back home to Mr. Regos’ hovel, wet snowflakes pelting him and frigid waves bombarding him. Lightning coursed across the sky and the winds howled, and Pirin couldn’t stop himself from shivering—even when he did make it home, and even when he did wrap himself in a blanket and wring out his soaked clothes.

For a few hours, everything had been normal. Mr. Regos wasn’t there; he was out at a hut somewhere on the upper plateau of Kerstel, treating an old hermit’s springcough. But he’d left some old manuscripts for Pirin to copy. The storm continued, but Pirin had his task, and though it was mind-numbingly boring, he didn’t have anything better to do.

And then a horn sounded in the back of the cove. It was a deep, earthy noise, and it echoed around the rock walls, distorting into moaning tones. Pirin ran outside the hovel.

At the back of the cove, a group of ten mounted soldiers had gathered. They wore pure silver armour and white cloaks, and they all had ostal horns. Dominion soldiers. Behind them, they dragged a lump of bundled emerald-green fabric.

One of the soldiers kicked the side of his horse, urging the creature to trot forward gently. By now, most of Darekshore’s villagers had streamed outside to see what the commotion was. They gathered on the gravel shore in front of the soldier, staring up at him curiously.

The soldier cleared his throat, then shouted, “By decree of the Emperor, all subjects across the Dominion’s purview aged seventy to eighty seasons are hereby declared direct property of the Dominion! Under this order, these subjects will travel to the nearest city. They will drink one grail of Ichor each and be tested for a Reyad. Those who form a Reyad will remain the Emperor’s property! Until the unsuccessful subjects return, none shall leave this village!”

The soldier reached inside his saddlebag and drew out a scroll of parchment. A wax seal with the chained-horn crest of the Dominion clung to its bottom corner. An order from the Emperor, sure enough. And Kerstel, being an island under Dominion rule, could not ignore such a demand.

“Should you resist, force will be used!” The soldier tucked the scroll of parchment back into his saddlebag, then motioned to the ground behind him. The lump of green fabric. “This man was caught along the path to your village! He refused to obey the decree: to return here!”

Pirin jumped down a set of stairs, and landed in an ankle-deep pool of gravel and water. He inhaled sharply and ran towards the soldiers, desperate to catch a glimpse of the short man.

Green coat, brass buttons…gray hair tied up into a ponytail. It couldn’t be…

Pirin wove through the crowd, trying to get closer. He paused between two villagers, catching a decent view of the Dominion’s prisoner. The man’s coat was tattered, his scalp bloodied, and his lips bruised. He barely breathed.

“Mr. Regos…” Pirin choked out. Mr. Regos would have refused to return with the soldiers because he had a destination—he was going to help someone, and it couldn’t wait.

The soldier dismounted and drew his sword. The three-foot blade glinted in the torchlight.

“No…” Pirin whispered. He pushed through the villagers, trying to make it to the front of the crowd, when a thick, meaty hand caught his collar and hauled him back. A spike of fear shot into his heart, and for a moment, he feared that he’d been caught by another soldier—until he looked back and spotted the friendly face of…Tanillar.

“Don’t do it, Pirin!” the young fisherman whispered. His curly red hair bobbed, and his square jaw locked.

But Pirin still struggled. His feet scraped on the gravel and he clawed at Tanillar’s hand. But he, a scrawny elf, was no match for a man, a fisherman’s son. Tanillar pulled him back into the safety of the crowd. “You’ll be killed too.”

“But—”

“You can’t help him.” Tanillar released his grip. “They choose to kill him, and no one can stop them.”

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Pirin’s legs collapsed beneath him, but he wasn’t done yet. He tried to stand. Tanillar placed a firm hand on Pirin’s shoulder, keeping him down. Pirin could only peer between the legs of the villagers like slats in a window.

Mr. Regos opened his mouth and raised his head. He let out a pained groan, and his gaze shifted across the crowd. Then he looked down, through the legs of the villagers, and his gaze came to a rest on Pirin. Torchlight glimmered in his glassy eyes. “Pirin!”

“Master!” Pirin yelled. His own voice sounded so helpless, and he hated it. “Master, please—”

“Pirin!” Mr. Regos tried to push himself higher, but the soldier set a hand on his back and shoved him back down. “Listen to me! We’re healers! We make sure that there’s always someone in this world who’ll help others!”

The soldier lifted his sword above Mr. Regos’ head.

Mr. Regos shouted, “Promise me, you’ll—”

The soldier swung. The blade bit into Mr. Regos’s neck and cleaved his head from its shoulders. Blood poured out across the pebbles, mixing with the wet pebbles.

Pirin waited, on his hands and knees, as the blood seeped towards him. Wisps circled around his hands and clung to his knees.

After a few minutes, a cold metal gauntlet clamped onto his shoulder and hoisted him up to his feet. One of the soldiers had pulled him up. The ostal pushed him towards the rest of the village’s gathered youth.

For the first time in his life, Pirin had known he was truly powerless.

They dragged him away, and as far as he knew, he had never returned to Darekshore.

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Pirin sprung upright, gasping and blinking. The darkness of the attic surrounded him. His breathing technique broke, and every time he tried to inhale, he choked.

Mr. Regos was dead. The Dominion had killed him. Pirin tightened his hands, first in rage, then to try to force himself to accept it.

It had been years ago. He’d…forgotten.

“Are you alright?” Myraden asked. She hadn’t been sleeping either—or if she had, she had woken up before him. She crept across the room, but Pirin inched away.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I…”

“What is it?” She knelt in front of him, and her bloodhorn trotted close behind her. There was warmth in her eyes, but Pirin didn’t understand why, and he couldn’t reciprocate it. As much as she remembered him, he barely knew her.

“I used the Memory Chain,” he said. “I—I saw a memory of them killing my master.”

Myraden reached out a hand, as if she was going to place it on his shoulder. But she pulled back at the last moment. “We need to sleep. We need to be ready. Do not cycle your Essence this time. You purified enough to last you for a few days.”

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“We haven’t seen anyone, sir.” Khara’s voice crackled through the Red Hand’s windstone. “Alright, alright. Yes, Nael, we’ve seen people, but not a black-haired elf travelling with a gnatsnapper…”

“Keep looking,” the Hand replied, holding his windstone up above his head and letting the rushing air of the harbour fuel it.

“Have you seen anything, sir?” Nael’s voice slipped through the stone. The bustle of the harbour rattled on in the background—even though the sun had set and it was late at night, business didn’t stop.

“Nothing,” the Hand replied. He walked to the wooden railing in front of him and placed his hands down on it. “But I will keep looking. Take watches if you need to rest, but make sure there is always one of you with an eye on the harbour.”

“Yes, sir,” Khara said. “What about you?”

“I’ve survived off less sleep before, and I can do it again.”

He lowered his arm and tucked the windstone into the pocket of his coat, cutting it off from the wind. His disciple’s voices fell silent.

Pushing away from the railing, the Hand walked back across the deck of the loaned ship. It was a third-rate Dominion ship, which sailors had taken to calling ‘frigates’. The deck was a hundred paces long, and he had to walk half that distance to get from the bow all the way back to the bridge.

He passed the ship’s first giant ballista. It rested on a blocky platform, raised slightly above the deck. The blocky, utilitarian superstructure continued all the way along the deck, getting slightly taller, until it reached the ship’s single mast. A pair of triangular sails hung off both sides off the mast, blossoming in the wind and fuelling the ship’s patrol across the harbour.

The Hand climbed up a steep staircase on the outside of the superstructure, ascending the stacked layers until he reached the ship’s bridge. It was a small room in front of the mast. Banks of glass gave the crew inside a view of the water in front of them.

A pair of ostal sailors in white gambesons stepped aside, allowing the Hand to pass between them. He marched into the bridge. A coxswain held the ship’s wheel in place, and navigators stood at a table behind, patiently awaiting orders. The captain stood at the front of the bridge, staring out across the harbour.

“So, which of you needed to see me?” the Hand demanded.

“Sir,” the captain of the frigate acknowledged, dipping his head. He was dressed in the same white gambeson as the rest of the sailors, but he also wore a sash of braided gold thread to mark his rank. “We received word from shore. A couple of criminals and ne’er do wells entered the city this evening, too—”

“Criminals are not our concern, captain.”

“A thousand pardons, sir, but these ones might be.” The captain paused, looking expectantly at the Hand. When the Hand said nothing, the captain continued: “A racer—a criminal, really—and some elven goons. They said they came from Bâllenmarch, and they were looking for an elf with black hair.”

“If they think they’ll get a bounty from me, competing for my prize, then they are greatly mistaken.”

“I cannot guess their plans sir. But I thought it wise to warn you.”

“Thank you, captain. Keep patrolling the shore. If these criminals threaten our mission, then we will deal with them.”