Again, Garrosen flourished his short sword, then swung it at Pirin.

Pirin slipped to the side, circling Garrosen and trapping the man between himself and Gray.

“Alright, now,” Pirin said, tugging the sheath off his sword, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You’re beaten. Surrender. Promise me that you’ll stop following me. You aren’t my enemy, and we can both make this much easier.”

“Never! An Embercore like you doesn’t get to walk away! You’ll die, and—”

Fine, then. Pirin lunged forwards, trying to swat the man’s sword away. Garrosen blocked it, but Gray attacked from behind, slashing with her talons. She sliced through the man’s shoulder, and he yelped. He whirled around and swung wildly, but Pirin pinned the man’s sword against the ground with a quick slash.

Garrosen growled and pushed Pirin backward, using his enhanced body to his advantage. Pirin stumbled back into a crate of fireworks. One went off, nearly slicing the tip of his ear off. The trail of sparks set the tails of his coat ablaze, but he patted them out. Garrosen lunged, leading with a massive overhead swipe.

Pirin leaned to the side to dodge the man’s sword, then caught the back of his head and pushed his head down into the crate of fireworks, just in time for another to go off.

Screaming, Garrosen staggered backwards. He clutched half of his face, which was now charred and blackened.

The rest of the fireworks all began to ignite, blasting and popping into the sky. Light flickered across the terrace, straining Pirin’s eyes. One second, everything turned violet, then the next second, everything was blue, then red and orange.

Pirin jumped at Garrosen, leading with a high swipe. The man blocked it, but barely. He staggered back again. Gray pinned him with her talons, fighting his strength with her weight. Just before she could peck his neck, he stabbed upwards, his sword slicing across Gray’s feathery cheek. She squawked and fluttered back.

Through his temporary Reyad, Pirin felt the slice in his own cheek. Scowling, he pounced on the fallen wizard. He batted Garrosen’s sword aside with his own weak Winged Fist, then drove his sword through the man’s chest.

Garrosen gasped, then sneered with a gloating expression on his face. He would die, for sure...he had lost. He shouldn’t have been happy. He grunted, “I’ll have my honour…in life or death.”

His left arm splayed out to the side. In his hand, he held a fizzling firework.

Pirin ripped his sword free and scrambled backwards. Garrosen released the firework. It blasted past Pirin, searing his flank. The gust of air and the graze of the firework was enough to fling him backward off the edge of the terrace.

Pirin plummeted. If the fall didn’t kill him, it’d seriously injure him. He held his sword out and dragged it down the sandstone wall. It slipped into the old grout between the bricks and carved a channel. His arm was wrenched upwards, but it slowed his fall. When he hit the cobblestone wharf below, he only felt a thud, not a bone-shattering crash. He patted his cloak to stop it from burning, but that didn’t make the singed flesh beneath feel any better.

He stared up at the sky, lying on his back and panting to catch his breath. Gray jumped off the terrace and fluttered down to his side, then nudged his mask with her beak. Just making sure it’s on tight. You’ll still need it.

“Thanks…” he whispered, still looking up. Fireworks detonated all across the harbour’s sky, filling the air with thick banks of smoke. The stars were barely visible. A little bit of natural mist poured into the harbour as well, clouding the sky and making the fireworks seem bigger than they actually were.

After a few minutes, the explosions stopped and the sky dimmed. No more colourful sparks rained down on the harbour.

“Are you alright?”

Pirin groaned, pushing himself up to his feet. A group of dock workers had gathered around him, muttering to each other. But they weren’t the ones who asked.

Myraden pushed through the crowd, her cloak floating behind her as she ran, and her bloodhorn followed close behind. She still held her spear in her hand, its haft solid. Streaks of blood ran down it. “Is he still chasing you? Is he—”

“I got him…” Pirin whispered, conscious of the workers. “He’s gone. We just need to get on that ship.”

As he had run through the city, he had navigated close enough to the civilian docks. The passenger liner they’d decided on before was now only a few berths over.

“Nothing to see!” Myraden called, pushing a few of the dock workers away. They stared at her suspiciously, until her bloodhorn gave a deep bleat that sounded more like a growl. “Go! Get back to work!” She marched closer to Pirin. “We need to go.”

“I’m right behind you…”

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Pirin and Myraden walked briskly across the wharf, keeping their heads down. They tried to draw as little attention to themselves as possible, but with a gnatsnapper and a bloodhorn trailing behind them, it was hard not to. And the commotion they’d just caused couldn’t have helped. Pirin had just fallen off a terrace and attracted a crowd of workers.

They walked straight toward the passenger liner. On one side, a wooden ramp for civilian passengers led up to the ship’s main deck, and on the other side, a cargo crane stocked the ship with supplies.

There was no way they would sneak past the ticket inspectors and the Aerdian guards on the passenger side, let alone smuggle their Familiars aboard with them. Besides, the line of passengers had almost all filtered through into the ship.

They were almost too late.

A pier ran along the hull on the other side of the vessel, heaping with barrels, crates, and luggage. The crew and dock workers rushed to load the ship back up and make it ready for another long, overseas journey.

Pirin glanced over at Myraden and whispered, “If we slip onto a cargo wagon and hide, we might be able to get Gray and Kythen into the ship without anyone noticing.”

“Which wagon?” she asked, glancing around. Pirin followed her gaze. Wagons and carts streamed all across the harbour, racing towards ships with supplies and cargo, or rumbling away into the city with wooden containers.

“The largest one you see,” he said. “If it’s heading toward the right ship.”

They continued across the harbour, walking calmly and confidently—At least, Pirin hoped it looked that way. They headed straight towards the loading cranes. Any moment, someone would notice them, and they’d need an explanation. He flexed his fingers, ready to use the Whisper Hitch technique. He hadn’t spent all his Essence.

When they were halfway to the passenger ship, Pirin spotted the perfect wagon. He didn’t point to it, but he whispered, “Myraden, there.”

She was already looking at the wagon. It was large enough to fit the two of their Familiars, and there was room enough in the back to hide the creatures in.

“If you stop the wagon, I will get Kythen and Gray aboard,” Myraden said.

“That, I can do.” He would just need a glimpse of the coachman’s eyes. Hopefully, the coachman’s will was weak enough that Pirin could affect him.

Pirin ran to the left a little, breaking away from Myraden and the Familiars, then he clapped his hands to draw the coachman’s attention. The elf turned his head for a moment, and Pirin held out his hand, ready to spring the trap and convince the man to stop the wagon.

Before Pirin could launch the technique, a voice rang out behind them.

“You two, stop right there! Yes, you! We saw you tumble off the terrace! You weren’t subtle! Stop and identify yourselves!”

Pirin whirled around. Two dark forms approached. They marched past a torch, which illuminated their white cloaks and uniforms—Dominion wizards. A seafolk woman walked side by side with a boar, and just behind her walked a satyr with a griffin. They were the wizards from Rootmine, the Hand’s wizards.

Both of them had tied a piece of semi-transparent silk around their eyes. It was enough that they could certainly see through it, but Pirin couldn’t glimpse their eyes.

A shiver ran down his spine—the seafolk woman looked straight at him, and she had scanned his spirit.

The satyr held up a porous gray stone to his mouth. A windstone! He’d alert the whole harbour.

Pirin’s eyes widened. He tightened his fingers and threw a Winged Fist through the air. The gust of air was just strong enough to blast it out of the satyr’s hand. It bounced to the edge of the wharf and tumbled down onto the wooden pier that ran alongside the ship.

“So you’ve learned a new trick,” the satyr sneered, backing towards the windstone. “It won’t save you.”

The seafolk woman yawned, then looked at her companion. “Which one do you want, Nael? The Catch, or the Spark?”

Pirin forced himself to breathe slowly, passing his Essence between himself and Gray. She fluttered to his side, then belted out an aggressive string of chirps. Myraden pointed her spear at them. The wagon they had stopped rumbled away behind them, its coachman mumbling under his breath.

“Where’s the Hand?” Pirin asked, then immediately regretted it. Did the Hand think that sending his disciples was enough? If that was the case, then…they probably were enough. Both of the disciples drew Dominion swords from their hips.

Pirin winced, realizing he had been the last to raise his weapon. He pointed his sword at them.

“I’ll take the heir,” said the satyr—Nael. “Once we alert the Hand.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” replied the seafolk woman. She glowered at Myraden, then hissed, “Sprite filth.”

Before either of the wizards could attack, Myraden lunged in, sweeping her spear at both of them and pushing them back. The seafolk woman blocked it, then pushed it down into the wharf. The spearhead grated against the cobblestone, sparking and shrieking.

Before Pirin could help, Nael charged, thrusting with his sword. Pirin blocked instinctively, pushing it to the side, but he wasn’t ready to defend himself from the second, faster swipe. He jumped back. His enemy’s sword cleaved through the air where he’d just been standing, then collided with the wharf. It struck with such force that it shook and cracked the stone.

Nael was a Flare, too.

Before Pirin could try to counter, Nael thrust his hand out, Manifesting claws of burning griffin Essence on the tips of his fingers. Pirin jumped back again and stumbled. The technique roared off Nael’s hand and sizzled through the air. It sliced past the tip of Pirin’s nose. Again, Pirin retreated a step.

Nael turned away and sprinted towards the windstone. Judging by the strength of his core, he was around the low end of Flare, too—he felt the same as Garrosen, only he had his Familiar with him.

If Pirin could punch-up once, he could do it again.

But Nael’s arcane-enhanced, fur-covered legs carried him faster than Pirin could ever hope to. When the satyr jumped down to the pier, he barely broke stride.

Pirin sprinted after him anyway. By the time Pirin arrived at the edge of the wharf, Nael had reached the windstone. Pirin jumped down to the pier as Nael bent down and picked the stone up. He held it up to the wind. Pirin opened his mouth. “No—”

“Shut it!” Nael smirked. “You’re not getting out of this alive, Embercore.”