Khara dragged herself out of a stream, inching up onto the shore. Her boar, Paya, gripped her sleeve and pulled as well, helping her get higher up out of the water/

Khara was still in the valley, surrounded on all sides by mounds of stone and tropical trees. As soon as she recovered her senses, she leapt to her feet and spun around in a circle, hunting for any sign of Myraden.

It’s been an hour, Paya said inside her head. He snorted softly. She’s gone. They’re off the island. Everyone saw the airship fly away.

Khara let out a shout, then spun around and kicked a log. In her birthtongue, a dialect of an ancient language from Half-Crossing Island, she yelled, “Again? They just flew away? And everyone let them? Again! Again!” It didn’t translate well, but Paya got the meaning anyway.

Myraden wasn’t supposed to escape. She was a Northern Sprite, a creature inherently inferior to ostal and men and pretty much anyone else in the Eight Kingdoms! And, at that, a weaker wizard.

For Nael, and for the good of the Dominion, Khara had to keep chasing. She staggered along the stream bed, trying to get to the island’s shore. From there, she could wrap along the beach and make it back to the city of Dulfer. If the Hand was going to meet her anywhere, it was there.

And she wasn’t going anywhere without her teacher.

They would follow Pirin and Myraden.

Soon, Myraden would die. They’d both suffer.

~ ~ ~

Chancellor Ivescent, current regent of Sirdia, was used to devastating after-battle reports. But he didn’t often see it with his own eyes.

He rode a horse along a muddy ridge in the middle of No Man’s Land. The mountains, which divided the northern elven kingdom of Sirdia from the southern Aerdia, cast a shadow across the wasteland. As if the spring warmth didn’t make this place horrid enough (it melted the snow and turned the sticky mud into slop), elven bodies littered the ground ahead.

There had been a battle here. He didn’t know what had happened precisely—he was a politician, not a warlord—but there were plenty of blue-cloaked Sirdian bodies scattered amongst the mess. The rest wore ambersteel armour; they had been Aerdian soldiers.

“How many died?” Ivescent asked, looking over his shoulder. Two advisors rode behind him, followed by an entourage of guards.

“We estimate that a quarter of Marshal Velbor’s men died last night,” said one of the advisors. “Which now puts his legions at half their strength at the beginning of the year.”

Ivescent rubbed the bridge of his nose. This was only one of many enormous losses in the past few months, and they couldn’t keep it up. How much longer until the Dominion sent wizards to aid their southern, Aerdian vassals?

“Does Velbor count this as a victory?” Ivescent asked.

“He routed the Aerdian army back to the ruins of Vēl Cadann, sir,” one of the advisors said.

“We cannot keep taking losses like this.” Ivescent turned his horse around to face the advisors. “Send a messenger to all the armies in No Man’s Land. Instruct them to hold their ground until further notice. They are not to attack until we can replenish our ranks.”

He was about to snap his horse’s reins and ride away, but one of the advisors held up a hand. “Sir, we have received word from our sources in Aerdia. Governor-King Tarliom has been reported dead to the general public.”

“It’s about time,” Ivescent grumbled. The Governor-King of the southern regions was long dead, and everyone knew it. It was time they admitted it. “So the Dominion is taking absolute control over Aerdia, I take it?”

“It seems so, sir. They’re not putting up any pretense of an organic civil war anymore. It’s us against the Dominion.”

“We are loyal to the Chosen King,” Ivescent said. He sucked in a cautious breath, then called, “Hold tight. Pirin will return to us.”

He pulled his horse away from the aftermath of the battle and began to ride back to the mountains, glowering the whole way.

He had been ruling this small northern kingdom for three decades before Pirin, and he would do it however long he needed to see the Elven Continent reunited. But without the wizard-king on their side, they couldn’t hold on for much longer.

~ ~ ~

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The Red Hand’s prey had escaped. It wasn’t subtle. There had been a burst of airy Essence, something more powerful than the Heir should have been able to muster, and a plume of dirt blasted fifty feet up into the sky. Then, the airship had come, and it was over. They flew west, away from the island.

There was only one explanation: the heir had a powerful wizard helping him, now.

At first, he worried it was Lady Clase. But, even if she had chosen to betray him, she wasn’t strong enough to muster that blast.

He was about to march into the labyrinth and hunt for Clase, regardless of whether she had betrayed him, but he didn’t have to. She staggered out the entrance alongside a plume of dust, coughing and gasping.

As soon as she stepped out into the evening light, she came to a halt. “My sincerest apologies, honoured Hand,” she began, looking just a little bit up and over his shoulder—back at the Saltspray camp. By now, most of the warriors and workers had turned to watch, and a few of them inched closer. But the bravest among them were either in the tunnels or dead. No one would raise a weapon against him. “We would have had him, but…”

The Hand had no more patience for this. His expression soured, and in an instant, he made his decision.

He sprinted at her, drawing his sword as he ran. Clase conjured a set of glowing wrist-blades and deflected the first swipe. Her blades scraped along the dark edge of the sword, scraping off a coating of dark soot.

It might have dented or broken any other sword, but it couldn’t scratch the Sword of Spring Dawn, not while the Red Hand wielded it.

The Hand spun around her back and raised his blade. The black surface reflected light that didn’t exist, and a metallic whoosh ran down the cutting edge. He tightened his grip and hacked downwards.

The blade cut the air in the blink of an eye, pressing against the fabric of the world. An aura gathered around the blade, filling it with the intent to be sharp. Nothing less than a perfect cut would suffice.

Clase was faster, and she turned to face him as he swung. She opened her mouth, and tried to say, “Rei—”

In an instant, the blade cleaved across Lady Clase’s body, from shoulder to rib. Her upper body slid to the side, and she collapsed into an unmoving heap.

There was one simple truth to killing wizards: a wizard couldn’t use magic if they were dead. Kill them before they could use their magic, and there was nothing to fear.

He flicked his blade to the side, whisking the blood off it. Then he tucked it back into its sheath. The rest of the Saltspray warriors stared at him, but they would soon scatter. Their matriarch was dead, and presumably, their other wizard was as well. The clan wouldn’t last long.

He began to march down the center of the camp, and all of the other Saltsprays backed away to the edge, staring at him.

The heir had flown west. He was heading to the Mainland, still, even if he had found a teacher. Looking for advancement resources, perhaps. Chasing after him was a violation of the Hand’s exile, but that wouldn’t matter when he caught the heir.

So the chase would continue.

The Hand had a wizard to catch.

~ ~ ~

Lady Neria’s carriage arrived at the mouth of an alley. It was precisely midnight, and the moons spread a pale magenta light over Rasis Nuréans-Ost—the capital city of the Dominion. Only slivers of moonslight reached the depths of the city.

The coachman marched to the side of the carriage and opened the door, and only then did Lady Neria step out, followed by her two mortal guards. Her pure white coat fluttered in a draft, and her graying hair and ostal horns glimmered in the moonlight.

The coachman handed her a small gilded chest, marked with the crossed-feather sigil of the Neria Shipbuilding Company, and she took it gingerly before stepping into the alley. Her guards trailed close behind, their armour clanking. But they wouldn’t do any good against the wizard she was meeting.

Still, she walked with her head high and her back straight, chin raised proudly as she wove around grimy crates and barrels. Broken glass clinked under her boots. Her heart didn’t beat any faster than normal.

“You’re exactly on time,” droned a deep voice from further down the alley.

“A Neria would never be late,” she responded, unlatching the chest.

“What do you want, mortal-lord?”

Lady Neria raised a finger to her chin and stroked it. “What a loaded question. Power? Revenge? To rule the Dominion as an empress? Most of all, the allegiance of an Unbound Lord. I’m dealing with Three, correct?”

Something fluttered overhead. She looked up. Something clung to one of the eaves high above, but in the dark, she could only make out two glowing green eyes. Either a Familiar, or the Unbound Lord himself.

“I am Three.”

Lady Neria knelt down, grimacing as the tails of her coat brushed the grimy ground. She set the chest on the ground and opened it all the way, revealing a set of glowing feathers. They were the shape of a peacock’s, but entirely white. They let off enough light to illuminate the entire alley like it was daytime.

Wild-treasures.

The glowing green eyes disappeared, and with the flutter of a cloak, the Unbound Lord slunk deeper into the alley, once again slipping out of sight.

“Five Gallgull feathers,” Lady Neria said. “I’m sure you can turn that into a nice elixir for yourself or one of your children, but I’m no wizard, nor an alchemist.” She stepped back from the chest and crossed her arms. “The Company can give you a monthly allowance of advancement resources.”

Three was the most vulnerable of the Unbound Lords, and the most likely to accept such a deal. His Family, at the moment, was on difficult terms with the Emperor, and consequently, his resource allowance was less than the other Unbound. She could fill the gap perfectly—for a cost.

“What do you want?” Three repeated.

“Your cooperation,” she said. Whoever controlled the wizards controlled the Dominion.

Three snorted. “An enemy is returning to the Mainland.”

“The elven Heir? That’s not new news in our circles, and he’s not important.”

A wind blasted through the alley, and the chest slammed shut. In the new darkness, the glowing eyes returned. “The Red Hand of the Emperor.”

Neria’s eyes widened, but she restrained herself otherwise. “I will deal with him as he comes. Do I have your allegiance?”

“We have a deal, mortal.” Lord Three paused, then said, “I expect to be treated right when you are Empress.”

To Be Continued…