Pirin let his channels relax for the rest of the day. He had spent most of his Essence, and he had put a serious strain on his channel system.

He and Myraden helped organize the cargo hold, moving boxes and repairing their Familiars’ bedding. When Pirin had opened the cargo hold last night, exposing it to the wind, it had blown around a bunch of loose boxes, not to mention tore half of Gray’s nest apart. Kythen’s straw bedding was gone completely.

After a few minutes of working in silence, Pirin asked, “Why did you leave?”

Myraden’s head perked up. She looked over the stacks of crates from the other side of the cargo hold, a bundle of straw in her hand. Kythen stood behind her, munching on a mouthful of hay. The only response she gave was: “Hm?”

“I mean…” Pirin dipped his head. “We have history, don’t we?” Hir Venias had described her as a friend, and he had seen her in a few memories.

“That is an understatement,” Myraden said bitterly. “But it does not do us much good if only one of us remembers.”

Pirin was sitting on the edge of the cargo platform, legs dangling over the edge, as he helped Gray weave the twigs of her nest back together. “We were…friends, right?”

“Yes,” she said quickly. Then she looked down at the deck below. “Just friends.”

Pirin bit his lip. There were cues there, and he wanted to understand what had her so frustrated, but he was completely incapable of it—even if he tried. “Could you…explain to me why you left, then?”

If they were going to work together, to advance together, and—as they had promised in the labyrinth on Dulfer’s Reach—to be the friends each other needed, then Pirin needed to understand more about her.

He had to admit a little personal interest, too. Scratching the back of his head, he looked down at the deck. She was also kinda pretty, and that couldn’t hurt matters. No matter how much he wanted to be singularly focussed on advancing…well, there were other things in life besides magic.

“There were problems,” Myraden said.

…Oh. That didn’t bode well.

“I was tired of staying cooped up in Northvel. Your Embercore was hindering your progress, and I had hit a roadblock in my advancement, and both of us were not where we needed to be.”

Pirin didn’t know what to say to that. It wasn’t exactly his fault he had been tied down in Northvel—the Chancellor and the other lords and representatives wouldn’t give him permission to leave.

“I needed to fight,” Myraden said. “I could not sit around and do nothing while ministers and politicians squabbled. So I left. We went our separate ways until you found me in Greanewash.”

He nodded slowly, weaving another twig into Gray’s nest. “What…what were you? Before you left, I mean?”

“That…is not easier to answer.”

“We have time.”

“Not what I meant.”

“...Oh,” he said aloud this time.

“The sprites used to live in Ískan,” she said. “You remember this place, or…?”

“Not really.”

“A nation at the very northern tip of the Mainland, and a vassal of the Dominion—it had been for centuries. There was a rebellion, and the Dominion burnt everything to the ground in retribution.” She stood up. Her hands were starting to tremble, and drips of red Essence fell from her fingertips like pollen. Kythen bleated softly and nuzzled her shoulder. “Not many sprites survived. The sprites fled to the Elven Continent. That was…a little over a decade ago, now. When we arrived in Sirdia, I pledged my service to the Chancellor and trained under Kal.”

Pirin bit his lip. He didn’t think she was actually going to give him an answer. “I’m…I’m sorry, I—”

“Did you burn Ískan? No? Then do not be sorry.” She turned away and passed Kythen another bundle of straw. “Be angry. They are coming for Sirdia. The Dominion does not deal in half-measures. They will tear it to the ground and erase its people from existence.”

Pirin shut his eyes. There was a reason there were so few sprites left.

For a moment, he let himself bask in the darkness. Maybe it was better to give up, to not drag the rest of the elves down with him. The Dominion had wizards and massive armies, and Sirdia had nothing.

He’d been handed a nation in the last days of its existence, and it was rather unfair of them to ask him to pull it out of its troubles.

But he’d learned long ago that life wasn’t fair. This was his chance to be something more, to prove that he was more than just empty.

So what if it was hard?

He clenched his fists, then said, “Myraden, whatever happened between us when you left, I hope that’s behind us now.”

Stolen novel; please report.

“I was not upset at you, and you were not upset at me.”

“I don’t believe that.”

She snorted. “You have changed.”

“People tend to do that,” Pirin said. “Look, I don’t want any bad blood between us, and denying it was ever there won’t help.”

This time, Myraden stood up straight and raised her eyebrows. “I was more upset when you lost all your memories.”

“Not all of them.”

“Most.” She offered a half-grimace-half-smile. “But the Pirin who I knew…well, he is different now. He has a stronger will, and he is braver.”

“I’m…uh, not sure if that’s a compliment, but I’ll take it.”

“It takes some adjusting to, and that is all. You are someone who I should know better, but I do not.”

“Right...”

They worked in silence. Once Pirin and Gray finished repairing her nest, Pirin started cycling pure Essence again, practicing the technique Nomad gave him. He held it for nearly a half-hour before he had to stop and cut off the technique this time.

Though it left him kneeling on the floor, panting while holding a keg of drinking water, Myraden still looked on with appreciation.

“This new Pirin has more drive,” she said finally.

“I’m not going to let Sirdia fall,” he said. “If I’m the only one standing against an army of wizards, then so be it. But I hope I won’t be alone.”

Gray chirped, and Kythen bleated. Myraden said, “I will be there with you.”

“Thanks.” He picked the keg back up and tried the cycling technique again. Between deep, concentrated breaths, he said, “If you ever need someone to talk to, I’ll always listen. Our jobs might be lonely, but we’re together now, and I’m not giving up.” He put the keg in its place—nestled between a pair of larger crates—then turned around.

Myraden stood right behind him. Her eyes were glassy, and the corners were wet. Pirin grabbed one of her hands and held it. “I promise, Myraden.”

She dipped her head. “I will keep it in mind.”

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 Red Hand stood over the corpse of a Steppehawk. It laid sprawled out on the front deck of their sloop, wings wide.

He kicked it over with his foot, turning it onto its front. An arrow had pierced through its back, but none of its tail feathers had been marred. Perfect.

He drew his sword and drove it into the bird’s back, pinning it to the deck. “Good eye, Khara.”

She had been the one to see it, and he had been the one to shoot it down. It had been trailing a faint glow of Essence as it flew across the sky. The winds were carrying it east—back toward the Elven Continent—but it had no message. It was returning to whoever had sent it, heading back to that Eane-forsaken land.

“Sir, I don’t see how this is going to help us…”

“It could have been sent to anyone, hm? That’s what you think?” the Hand asked. “I disagree. The heir’s airship is heading the same way. Steppehawks can only track wizards.” He tapped the bird’s tail, where a set of darkened feathers spelled out a very specific set of runes. “It has no package, so it is returning home. Now, remind me, how many wizards are there on the Elven Continent?”

Khara sighed. “Very few.”

“And even fewer who would come this way. It’s the heir.”

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]

A few days later, the Hand and Khara arrived in Port Masyne. They both donned heavy cloaks to hide themselves from the Dominion soldiers and port guards—there was no need to stir up any trouble—and ventured deep into the city.

When they reached an old Seissen pagoda-church, they turned and ventured into a cave. It had been carved into the cliff face beneath the air-harbour, and buildings lined the cave walls. Walkways ran between their black roofs and curled eaves, and even during the day, hundreds of lights burned. Paper lanterns reminisced about the city’s older days—when, nearly a century ago, the peninsula wasn’t under Dominion rule—but the cheaper, modern rushlights drowned them out.

“Where are we going?” Khara asked.

“To visit an old friend,” the Hand whispered back. They stepped up onto a wooden walkway and wound into the darkness of the cave. Seissen citizens in their long robes and sandals brushed past, keeping their eyes down and dodging the attention of Dominion soldiers. They knew exactly what would happen if they angered a soldier.

“But—”

“I grew up in Seisse,” the Hand snapped. “I know my way around.”

They ascended a few storeys, passing dirty shopfronts and glowing lattice windows. The cave district might have been below the air harbour, and close to the city’s wealthiest travellors, but the Dominion took harsh taxes on its colonies (and they had gotten steeper lately), driving most businesses into disrepair.

At least, that would’ve been a suitable explanation for the rest of the city, but most of the businesses in the Cave District were fronts for shadier operations. The owners just didn’t care enough to maintain their properties.

The Hand stepped over a crumbling section of walkway and dipped his head under a frayed, dangling net. He approached the facade of an old teahouse with boarded-up windows. Stacks of barrels waited on either side of the door.

He pushed the door open and stepped into a smokey, dark room. A few Seissen patrons smoked Dominion-made pipes in the corner, and a dwarf in Seissen robes mopped the floor.

The Hand approached the back counter. Khara stood a few paces behind him, her boar snivelling.

“Who’s there?” a voice called from the back room.

“Three cups of jo-sumye,” the Hand ordered, “And a gyota.”

There was silence for a few seconds, then a head poked out from the sliding parchment door that separated the front room from the back. He was an old half-ostal half-man, skin lighter than most Seissens but darker than northmen and elves, but he still had yellow ostal eyes. “My lord?”

The Hand scowled. “Do not call me that, Bame.”

“Aye aye, sir, that may be indeed.” He rushed out of the back room, apron swaying. “You’ll always be a lord to me. For the Eane’s sake, it’s been…fifteen years?”

“Sixteen.” The Hand slammed his gloved hand down on the counter. When he lifted it, he revealed the severed tail of the Steppehawk. “I need you to copy runes for me onto another Steppehawk. Can you do that?”

If they had a bird primed and tuned, they could track the Heir no matter where he went. They didn’t know his rune signature until now, but the boy had been careless, and now, he’d tied a tether to himself.

“Yes, sir, indeed,” said Bame. “You…have another Steppehawk?”

Khara flicked aside her robe and stretched an arm out. She held a living, non-marked steppehawk by the neck.

“Ah…” Bame chuckled. “Well, then. Come right in. We’ll get the birdy all done up for you.”