Romak floated in the abyss of his prison, his body motionless for centuries, but his mind always wandering, weaving a path between his memories and his revenge. The sound of scratching grew closer. Soon, his enemies would pay.

For loving the wrong woman, those who ruled the realms had imprisoned him in the Trident’s Tray. They’d taken everything from him—his freedom, his best friend, his love and his child—but they were fools. The prison was the first of the Ugulats many mistakes. Elongating the fabric of time, making every second seem like years, hadn’t weakened him. It’d made him stronger. Surrounded by a mist of endless fog, heavy and blinding, he’d had nothing to do but think and plan.

Their second mistake had been underestimating the air. Those of the land and sea always did that. To them air was something to breathe and to warm or cool their bodies. To him and the other Tollseers, the wind was a friend. It searched for them, traveled with them and helped them when called. He’d definitely called, and his friend had answered. It’d taken centuries but the air was winning. It always did. It won against the sea, directing the waves, and the earth, etching away the rocks. It took time, but imprisoned in the Trident’s Tray, he had nothing else.

The scratching grew louder. Soon the pinprick would give and he’d be free. He opened his eyes, seeing nothing and then brightness flooded his prison, stinging pupils that’d grown accustomed to darkness. The fabric had surrendered. He wanted to burst forward, but now was the time for patience. He forced himself to remain still, to stay calm. The Trident pulsed around him, feeling for motion. If he moved too soon, he’d be given another kiss. He cringed at the memory and the large, reptilian tongue of the Trident swayed toward him.

He closed his eyes, forcing his body to relax as the tongue, cold and smooth, skimmed over his face. He pushed down his disgust and let his lips fall open, just a bit. The Trident tested him, searching for a reaction so it could slip inside his body and feed on his fear and anger, leaving him drugged and unable to think.

The tongue glided past his lips, tapping along his teeth. He emptied his mind, his teeth opening and the tongue, metallic and slimy searched his mouth. He drifted along in the fog, calm and motionless. The tongue retreated and he opened his eyes, watching as it disappeared in the mist.

A soft breeze skimmed over his face. Now. He had to go now. In his mind he pushed forward, stretching the ties that bound him to the Tray. He bared his teeth as the manacles burned his flesh, but he would not stop. No pain could hurt more than what he’d already suffered. Nothing would keep him from his freedom and his revenge.

The tongue flung forward, sensing his escape. It slapped at his face, but he called to his old friend the air that was slowly filling his prison. It swirled around the Trident’s tongue, snapping the snake-like appendage back and forth. The Trident roared, shaking the Tray.

Now that the Trident was busy, he could use his body. His skin sizzled as he yanked and tore at the restraints, but he moved forward toward the pinprick in the prison wall. His nose brushed against the opening. His body convulsed as hot bolts of energy zapped him, the Trident’s useless attempt to keep its prisoner. He could not, would not fail. He called for more wind, more power.

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His nose popped out of the prison as his face and skull entered. He screamed, the pressure threatening to explode his head but that was a trick—mental magic—and another mistake by the authorities. Tears ran down his cheeks, wetting his skin and easing his passage. More light flooded into his prison and the Trident screamed with rage as Romak’s body expanded the hole. The air—his air, his power—wrapped around him, lending its strength. He used his ability as a Tollseer to become one with the wind, to make his body malleable, more fluid. He bent into shapes no physical form should withstand as he tore through the Trident’s Tray. He fell into the mist, but his wind caught him, carrying him through the fog and spitting him into the other realm.

He crashed to the earth, its dark warmth cocooning him. Pain, glorious pain, raced through his body as he sat up. For too long there’d been nothing but the agony in his head. It was good to feel the ache of flesh once again. Colors assailed him—the green of the trees and grasses, the brilliant blue of the sky and the dark brown of the earth.

He ran his fingers through the dirt, so loved, so missed. He was finally home—Alfiedom, the realm of beauty and magic. It was where he’d been born but not where he was meant to stay. The Tollseers traveled the realms, but his heart had stopped wandering when he’d met her.

“Romak, you made it.”

He looked up from the hole his body had carved into the ground. “Draken, my brother, you look no different.”

They were not kin. Their bonds were born from pain and wars not blood. Unlike his tall, lean body and fair complexion, Draken was short and dark like all the Credark clan. His eyes were as black as a byway bog and his hair even darker. His features were blunt like stone and his grip strong.

Draken grabbed his hand, helping him climb out of the earth and then embracing him. “Romak. It’s good to see you.”

“For me it was forever.” He held his friend close for a moment—the contact so warm after centuries of cold solitude. He stepped back. “How long has it really been?” Time meant nothing to him. His kind aged slowly but the other realms were different, especially the realm of Migar where his love been sent. In the realm of humans, time sped by with no magic to slow the progression of age.

“Years, my friend, but not too long.”

The sound of a horn rang through the air.

“Come, we need to hurry.” Draken tugged on his arm. “They know you’ve escaped.”

“Let them come.” He was eager to show his enemies what they’d created with their rigid adherence to archaic laws.

“Not yet. The Weave. Cathesor found an opening.”

“Already?”

“Yes, but it’s small. With your escape, the Spinners will be scouring the Weave for weaknesses. They’ll find it and they will close it.”

He grinned. “Then we shall help them find it by punching a hole in it so big all the Spinners working as one won’t be able to stitch it together again.”

“You can’t fight them all, Romak.” Draken tugged on his arm again. “Come. We have a safe place.”

The horn sounded again, closer this time.

“Thank you, my friend, but there is no hurry.”

“But…” Draken’s black eyes were wide with fright as he glanced over his shoulder toward the sound of the horn. If he were caught helping the Destroyer, the Betrayed Prince, he’d be executed.

“Trust me.” Romak spun his finger, creating a small whirlwind and then flicked his wrist, sending it on its way. The wind shifted and the horn blared again.

“They’re going in the other direction,” said Draken.

“Yes, they are.”

“How did you…”

“I’ve had centuries to hone my magic. They’ve only had years to prepare for my wrath.” He stared into the forest, replacing the bleakness that had occupied his mind with life and trees, and memories of her. “Come. It’s time to reclaim my bride.”