Alex was dying.

Even as he and his companions hurtled through space, he could feel blood leaking between Birger’s fingers. His consciousness wavered. Warm frothy fluid, tasting of rust, dripped down his chin. Ashen skin turned clammy and cold.

Yet, his mind was on Theresa.

Burning.

How deep were those burns? Had the searing heat reached her lungs?

It was with these thoughts that Alex emerged back in the world a moment before his companions, hitting the ground, spraying the snow red. A battering wind met him like a giant’s fist; a howling squall raged with snow so thick, his breath was swept away.

A blizzard.

He’d teleported them into a blizzard.

His companions appeared around him. Theresa, her body and clothing still smouldering, collapsed near him, embers flickering in the icy wind. Brutus’ wimpers sounded like his heart was breaking as he limped toward her, favouring one paw.

His massive body trembled, chunks of flesh had been carved away along with bone armour.

“Father…father!” Claygon screamed, clutching the weakened Alex to his chest. Alex could hear Birger and Bjorgrund shouting nearby.

Yet, he had one single thought fixed in his mind.

Theresa.

Burning.

He couldn’t let fire take her from him too, not another loved one.

He couldn’t.

“Bring…me close…’ started saying to Claygon, but stopped.

He was dying; if he hadn’t transformed his body through blood magic, he’d already be dead. There was no way he could use Blood to Life to help her while he was so heavily wounded; he would lose consciousness and be dead before he could ever heal her burns.

Ambivalence gnawed at him when he realised what must be done.

He would have to heal himself first.

If he didn’t, he’d pass out…and die, leaving her to follow. Theresa would keep burning until she was dead, Brutus would bleed out, then Bjorgrund and Birger would come to a terrible end out here, wherever this place was.

He was the only one here who could heal.

He was the only one among them that could get them out of the storm.

But, to do that, he had to live.

Alex fought the darkness drifting over him, the cold creeping into his body, as alluring warmth whispered to him, calling him, promising eternal comfort if he would just let go.

Voices called to him.

“Not yet!” one shouted. “You can’t come here yet, you just can’t! If you do, we shall lose ever so much! Not! Yet!”

Carey’s voice was shouting, first from afar.

Then closer.

“You can’t let them win,” another voice said. “You can’t let Uldar win. You can’t let the cold corpse of a god win.”

Hannah was whispering from beyond.

He could hear her and Carey clearly.

Too clearly.

“I can’t heal you,” Hannah’s voice rolled through Alex’s mind. “I’m close; I’m getting stronger, but I can’t save you. Please, you have to help yourself! Don’t come here yet, don’t let go!”

Alex drew a breath filled with more blood than air, and coughing, he forced his lips to move. Blood Magic. Blood Magic would save him. Choking out the words of his spell, his breath caught as the Mark rose against him.

It came at him with a fury, with more strength than ever before. In his condition, even the fairly simple spell of Mana to Life—a spell he’d cast many times even through the Mark’s interference—threatened to fall apart.

‘If you have a mana reversal, you’ll die,’ the thought ran through his mind. ‘That can’t happen. It mustn’t.’

Alex tried guiding his way through the interference.

Yet, even his mind and body betrayed him; a storm of emotion. Panic. Rage. Terror. Grief. Despair. All struggled in his mind and soul, threatening to overwhelm him with the Mark’s intrusions.

He was bombarded with failure upon failure; in all areas of his life, even beyond spellcasting.

It showed him a burning alehouse.

How he’d failed to save his parents, how he’d struggled yet hadn’t escaped Mr. Lu’s grip.

The memory came to him with an image of himself on the ground, overwhelmed by the Fool’s Mark when he’d torn the First Apostle’s arm from his body…an arm that Uldar’s servant had clearly regrown.

Even that act had been futile.

Carey had saved his life then, but her spirit was too far to help him now.

He kept seeing himself failing to save Theresa.

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He saw himself laying in the snow like a useless lump while his true love’s essence burned to cinders, just as his parents’ had.

Despair clawed at him, chased by fear and doubt.

What if it was too late? What if he couldn’t save her? What if Brutus bled to death while she was burning, and because of their connection, she died too? What if they were already dead?

His thoughts were erratic.

The urge to let go grew stronger.

He didn’t much want to live in a universe without her.

Maybe…maybe if she was already dead, then it was better to drift away.

Hannah and Carey’s cries, Claygon calling him, begging him, and even the memory of the crackle of the First Apostle’s flame grew more distant. He was growing colder. His mind had found a deep sense of calm.

Yes, this was the way.

‘I’m tired,’ Alex thought. ‘And Theresa…if I can’t save her…then she’d be gone when I wake up. Better that I go first, to wait for her on the other side. Yes, then we’ll be together. And maybe I’ll meet Uldar in the after-world and pay him back for everything he cost us. Oh, who am I kidding, if Hannah didn’t get him, then I doubt I will. At least Hannah and Carey will be there to greet us. And mom and dad too! We’ll all be at peace together. Yeah…yeah…’

Calm blanketed his soul.

Even the Mark’s interference was fading.

But, an image abruptly dragged him back from his musings.

Selina and Claygon.

If he died, their family would be mostly gone; he’d go to meet their parents, leaving her and Claygon alone in the world. The Lus would take care of them, maybe his cabal would help.

Yet, what would become of them over time?

Claygon would lose his father.

Selina was still so young.

She’d be broken-hearted.

If the war lasted long enough, she’d grow up as it went on, maybe the only reason she’d go back to Thameland was to fight Ravener-spawn. She might join with the Heroes…fight a war that shouldn’t have been hers to fight.

A war that he would have left her to deal with.

He couldn’t let go, not yet, even though his life was fading, death luring him away. Even with the peace and comfort of the after-world enticing him, even with…

…with…

…with…

His mind was at peace.

He could barely sense the Mark with much of his consciousness dulled, as free from its opposition as he’d felt since before he turned eighteen.

Maybe he could save himself.

He had to try.

Alex pushed through the blood magic spell again, his lips were numb, his hearing weak, barely hearing the words he was speaking. Still, he spoke them, pushing each syllable through bloodied lips. He’d cast the spell many times before.

He could do it again.

The Mark pushed back, struggling, fighting to stop him from spellcasting. It was like a desperate beast backed in a corner. Every bit of will he could gather was straining, knowing he had to win this battle. He called on every tool he had, every meditation technique he could use, letting all fading senses pass him by.

Finally, his lips finished casting.

Mana flared. Blood magic connected his pool to his life force. Alex Roth poured power into his body, converting his mana to pure life energy. He began healing.

Pain returned, coming back with a vengeance.

Nerve endings screamed back to life as energy flowed through him, forcing wounds to begin closing. Sensation, sight, sound and taste returned. Agony claimed his senses, but he continued, making his magic transform to life energy.

Rolling onto his hands and knees as Claygon supported him, the Fool of Thameland spit blood in the snow, coughing, heaving, clearing his chest. The raw wound along his gut and side still gaped open, spasming, telling him his spell wasn’t enough to heal it.

The First Apostle’s divine blade had lacerated his body so deeply, and thoroughly…Alex couldn’t fix the wound. His lower abdomen had been skewered, the insides punctured. Feeling in parts of his had deadened, even as he retreated from the after-world.

‘Father…’ Claygon’s voice grew louder in his mind. ‘Father…can you hear me? Father…are you going to be alright?’

‘No,’ Alex thought, looking toward Theresa and Brutus.

‘But, I’ve got to help them.’

He squinted through the storm.

The huntress lay in a puddle of steaming snow; her skin had stopped burning. Much of her clothing had burned away, exposing raw ruined flesh. Her body resembled a map, with sections of bloodied red, and blackened patches. She’d curled up on her side, gasping for air, her eyes looked unfocused, she was shaking violently.

Brutus had collapsed beside her, panting heavily. One head nestled against Theresa, while the other two lay flat on the ground.

They didn’t have much time.

Alex still couldn’t see the giants.

‘If I can’t save myself,’ he thought. ‘Then I can’t save them. I don’t know if blood magic will be enough to heal her burns. I don’t know if I can heal Brutus…and if I stop healing myself, then I could pass out again. I need to get them to a more skilled healer…get us all to one. But how?’

His mind raced.

He didn’t know where they’d teleported to, and the only healers he could think of that could help them were in Thameland; Cedric and Merzhin.

‘It’d take dozens of jumps to get there from wherever we are…’ he thought. ‘And even if I could make it in a single jump, I have no idea where Cedric and Merhzin are, and I need to imagine a destination when I’m teleporting! Hells, I have no idea where we are! We’ve never been here…before…’

His racing thoughts paused.

He didn’t recognise this blizzard-wracked land. How had they gotten here? He'd always needed a firm location in his mind to teleport to. Kelda and Hannah hadn’t had that limitation, but he wasn’t as skilled with their power.

Not yet.

‘So how did I teleport here, to the middle of nowhere?’ he thought. ‘I’ve never done that before. So why now? If I can figure that out, I can figure out how to get to Cedric and Merzhin. Come on, man, think, what’s different? How is this different? Is it because I was desperate? Did I just get better from practise? Come on, could I repeat what I did? What was different from every other time I teleported? Think about it. Think. Think, adapt! Think, adapt! Adapt! You’re dying, you fool, ada—’

That train of thought stopped.

That was the answer.

‘I’m dying,’ he remembered Hannah and Carey’s voices. ‘I’m barely being held together by blood magic…and I was so close to the after-world that I could hear their voices. Hannah’s voice. She’s the source of this power! If I’m close to the after-world, that means I’m close to her! To the source! That means…oh, by Traveller. Hannah, I pray that I’m right. Help me, please. If I’m wrong though…’

He shook off his fears.

“We’re dying,” he whispered.

Theresa’s breathing and shivering had grown quieter.

“There’s nothing else for it,” he choked.

Alex stopped pouring mana into his lifeforce.

His blood loss immediately increased.

‘Father…what are you doing?’ Claygon pleaded, sounding panicked.

“Saving…us…” Alex coughed up a line of bright red blood, focusing on Hannah’s power.

Yes…yes he could feel it now. It was so strong, like a river being fed by an ocean. Power rushed through him.

His consciousness was fading.

“One…chance…” Blood bubbled from his lips.

He closed his eyes.

In his mind, he imagined not a place…but a person.

Merzhin.

Merzhin.

Merzhin.

No matter where he was, no matter what he was doing.

He needed to get to Merzhin.

With that final thought, Alex channelled his will into Hannah’s power. The energy roared in his soul. In that moment, he felt connected to…anywhere or even everywhere. All space was in his grasp. He had no need to touch it, to touch it.

Reaching out around him with Hannah’s power, he took hold of Brutus, Theresa, Claygon and Bjorgrund. He could feel her breathing grow shallow. He could feel Brutus growing weaker. He could feel Bjorgrund now collapsed on his side, bleeding badly. He seemed out of it, his eyes unfocused.

He could feel Claygon clutching his father to his iron form.

He could feel Birger holding his son.

Alex could also feel himself, hovering near death.

More importantly…

…he felt Merzhin.

He felt the Saint of Thameland, far to the west. An image touched his mind…the Saint was standing on Vesuvius’ back, healing the enormous familiar.

The massive tortoise poured lava from the hole at the top of his shell.

Merzhin shouted something.

Seated on her familiar’s neck, Tyris Goldtooth shouted words Alex could not hear.

Were they in battle?

No matter.

They were their only hope.

The Fool of Thameland reached out, touching the Saint with the Traveller’s power.

A connection formed across space.

Alex teleported.