Riot woke and felt gingerly for his wounded hand, giving a relieved sigh to find it hadn’t been cut off, so that at least hadn’t been part of the nightmare.

There was a new sensation, though, heavy, like a giant hand pressing down on his shoulders. He reached for it, and his senses brushed up against a thin barrier, smooth like glass, and just behind it, the torrential force of the leyline.

Ignoring the protests from every part of his body, he got off the table. Very carefully, pulling on his uniform and fastening the buttons with shaking hands.

“Open the door,” he croaked, banging his fist on the heavy wood.

A guardsman, hardly more than a boy, opened the door and leveled the point of a wicked-looking halberd. “No one in or out,” he said, trying to make his voice as deep as possible.

They shouldn’t have given him a halberd. A long, bloody, difficult weapon unless you’re standing on a battlefield. The heavy metal tip was already dipping toward the floor.

Riot seized the blade just below the sharp edge and pulled, realizing as he did so that he had no strength left in his body. Instead of pulling the guard toward him, he was yanked off his own feet and tumbled into the boy, sending them both toppling into the deserted corridor.

The pair struggled for a moment before Riot freed his arm and silenced the boy with a blow to the temple, rolling off of him and panting for breath.

The fragile barrier thrummed a warning, and Riot got to his feet slowly. I hear you, he thought, no fighting.

He stole through the embassy, avoiding the household staff, and eventually emerged into a back alley and a crisp winter day.

In a low-ceilinged tavern near the quayside, the locals viewed him with suspicion, but bedraggled soldiers were not unusual here. Besides, Riot was a shade over six feet tall, wearing the blue uniform of one of the largest regiments in the city, and there were not many who could meet the strangely emotionless gray eyes for long before looking away.

He picked out a handful of copper gilders he had sewn into the lining of his uniform to buy a bowl of stew and a mug of ale and sighed as the warmth from the food and the fire seeped into his bones. Despite the meal, he felt hungry, and he caught the eye of the serving girl and ordered a second bowl. The stew reeked of salted fish, and he forced it down until his belly ached, but he still felt the hunger as a maddening itch inside his skin, like his veins had run dry even though his heart still beat.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

Riot placed his elbows on the table and massaged his eyes with the balls of his hands. The fragile barrier was still there, and behind it was the impossible force. He had heard sailors speak of rogue waves, walls of water a hundred feet high, conjured by sea demons to wreck ships. That’s what this felt like—a looming wave, about to break on his head and wash him away.

How long did the barrier last? he wondered. If it failed, would he be able to push back against the leyline?

“You were supposed to wait at the embassy,” said a haughty voice.

Quinn, the woman from the east who had interrogated him, stood across the table, her hands on her hips and her lips pulled into a thin line.

“I had to eat,” Riot said, gesturing to the nearly empty bowl.

She pulled off her leather gloves and leaned on the table. Her hands were covered in faint silvery scars, each one an exquisitely detailed symbol. The symbols together formed an even larger image, and even as Riot tried to understand it, the shape appeared to drift under his gaze, like a flock of starlings undulating in the sky.

“You’re leybound,” he stated.

“I am. That’s why I know that you can eat as much as you like, but you’ll still feel hungry.”

Riot picked up the bowl and drained the stew, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Not any more.”

“You’re a criminal; you understand that, don’t you? The Wikkan are looking for you.”

Yesterday, the news would have given him pause, but today he couldn’t give two shits about the wikkan. “If Kerne wants me, she can come down here herself.” Riot pulled the mug toward him and took a long drink. He knew he was being obnoxious, but he didn’t care. The noblewoman's attitude was grating on his already tender nerves.

“Have you recalled anything about using the hedron?” Quinn asked.

Riot placed the tankard down with exaggerated care and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No, I don't, but they say experience is the best teacher; why don’t you do both of us a favor and open one up? Just make sure it’s away from me.”

Quinn leaned closer, and her cloak pulled back slightly to reveal unadorned twin swords, businesslike weapons that suited her demeanor.

“Let me tell you what will happen, sergeant. You will wallow here in your stubbornness, perhaps for a few hours, maybe half a day. The itch under your skin will grow and fester like an old scab, and you will not be able to scratch it, though you will try. You will scratch at it until you draw blood from your skin, and then, because you are a soldier, you will try to drown the feeling in ale or spirits. When this fails, you will reach for the thin barrier that holds back the tide. Just beyond that is the sweet feeling that will flood the dry channels and satiate the itch you feel. You will try to penetrate the barrier—just a small hole, just enough to let a little in. But the barrier is not of your own arts and you are not its master; neither are you master of the leyline that will burn you from this world.”

Riot sat, mesmerized, as Quinn turned and walked to the bar, briefly speaking with the innkeeper before leaving.

Moments later, a serving girl brought over a large mug filled to the brim with strong-smelling spirits. “It’s from the lady who just left,” she said.

Riot sat for a moment, his gaze locked on the mug in front of him. Then, with a frustrated grunt, he seized the mug, drained the liquor that burned his throat, and made for the door.