The dungeon floor was hard, cold and wet. The sapping crystal in Idris’s bound hands did a perfect job. At the very least, he had free use of his mouth, but his cheek was so sore that he could not perform any of the aria even if he could access it. In terms of imprisonment, it was not as severe as the brief stint he had spent as Kurellan’s prisoner, and yet Idris found that this felt worse. It was not the cold or the silence or the pull of the crystal. It was... sadder.

He had been careless, and he had paid the price. Joa and Willard almost had, too – and the soldiers Cressida had sent might already be dead. Lila and Riette, wherever they were, had to be Layton’s next targets. Loose threads dangled everywhere, but Idris had to hope that someone, somewhere else would pick them up. Here, he could do nothing.

The chest, then, had been empty all along. That, or Layton had removed the breastplate that afternoon while Idris was working on his escape plan. The seeds – what had become of them? Joa and Willard? Had the prince’s intention been to beat Layton into submission the whole time?

Whatever had happened, Idris needed to get out of the dungeon and get word to his friends. He had no idea how the tower might defend itself, nor of the powers Layton might now have with the breastplate and staff reunited. If The Remaker intended to harm everyone who might come to get Idris, then he had to do something.

Idris tested every body part. He could move his head and neck, could still speak. The injuries to his face were not so severe that he could not cast, should he get his hands free. Layton had taken his coat, boots and prosthetic – and, upon shuffling his arms, Idris discovered his grandfather’s dagger and its chest sheath were gone, too. He did not have access to his pockets, but he assumed Layton had taken the leaf-wrapped pills. His wrists were bound together and attached to the ground behind him with a short chain; his fingers were gummy, so Layton must have used an adhesive to force the skin to stick to the crystal. With the two points of contact Idris had with the ground, though, he was in a better position than he hoped.

There was no room to think of his emotions. His emotions, his hope, had got them all to this point. There was no hope for Layton anymore. Idris had to simply accept that.

As far as he could see, he had two options available. One was that out there, somewhere, a part of the plan had succeeded. Either the seeds were still growing in his bedroom and in the vault, or Kurellan had got to the tower, or Willard and Joa were mustering their forces to get Idris out. If that was the case, all he had to do was wait.

The other option was worse.

Idris tested the pain on the inside of his mouth. It tasted like iron. One of his teeth was loose, too, needling flares all up his jaw. If he wiggled it enough, he could produce a sizeable glob of blood. He wondered where the crusted blood on his lips had come from (a cut on the brow, perhaps?) but it hardly mattered. The odds of him being able to use that source were minimal to none.

Blood magic was not something he had studied, but he supposed he had to start somewhere.

Idris idled, rocking the loose tooth backwards and forwards, centring himself.

I am a fool, he thought. Riette was right. I could have killed Layton immediately. I would be home. The Spirit Glass would be gone and my soul would be my own again, and I would be happy.

The thoughts were bitter, but they grounded his purpose.

Uncle Haylan expected better from me. He spent his whole life teaching me that I was his family, regardless of everything else. Maybe that is why he kept the truth from me, because he knew I would put too much faith in a broken man.

His mouth tasted foul, now. Idris kept sucking the blood from his gums, gathering it in his cheeks.

Layton Vonner has a skull in his bedroom. A skull, filled with necrosis. What in all kingdoms is that?

Distracted, he listened to the scratching in the walls. Rats, probably. Then, content with his materials, he spat the blood out onto the stonework.

For a while, all Idris did was examine what he had produced. The saliva likely diluted the blood’s power, but there was no way to separate the two substances effectively. The bubbles popped, leaving a scarlet ooze on the ground.

Do I need my fingers for this? Do I have to be touching it for the magic to work? Does it need to be fresh? Maybe I can cast with my mouth full of blood.

His legs were not bound.

Idris shifted his stump under his backside and manoeuvred his left leg around so it was in front of him. Then, carefully, he pulled his stump through and sat. Gently, he worked the stump into the bloody spittle, and then he frowned and took a deep breath.

“This is going to hurt, Idris,” he whispered.

He scratched his stump on the stone, slowly, curious how it would feel. The edge of the flagstone was not sharp, but with repeated movement, he was sure he could break the skin. With the necrotised blood, surely…

It was tiresome work. Idris closed his eyes, breathed through it, thought of the pear trees and the fae jasmine and the cool walkways of the palace, all the while rhythmically rubbing his stump against the stone, feeling it sting, knowing that however this turned out, he was going to do something he could never undo. He focused his senses on the sounds of scraping in the bricks and the potential in the silence. It was oddly meditative. It reminded him of the days he spent kneeling with Magus Arundale in the palace library, practising his stances, reworking his movements and muscles.

Idris was sure he could have slept, had he not heard footsteps.

His heart lurched. Panicked, he shifted his legs back beneath him, resumed the kneeling position. Now he had stopped scratching, the stump throbbed and itched. There was no fresh blood yet, but the spot of spit was obvious. Idris hoped Layton would not notice, but it was likely too much to ask for.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

When he looked up, Layton was already standing at the cage door, staring in. In the dim dungeon light, he seemed pale and ethereal, like a false shadow cast from still water onto a bathroom wall. On his chest, the breastplate was dark and clinging, a parasite Idris wished not to see.

Layton did not exchange pleasantries. He sat in the chair once more, his face pensive and somehow troubled, and he considered Idris as if he was appraising meat at the market.

“Idris,” he said, rather conversationally, “who is the man with the magpie armour?”

Idris shifted his head to indicate his swollen mouth.

“I have a toothache,” he said. “I think you knocked my molar out.”

“I will knock every tooth from your head if you do not answer me,” said Layton, as if discussing the weather.

“His name is Kurellan.” Idris saw no harm in the truth for this. “He is a friend.”

“He killed my thralls.”

Good, thought Idris, flushed with victory.

“Secondly,” said Layton, “where is your cat?”

Idris frowned. “My… Thistle?”

A muscle in Layton’s cheek twitched. “You kept that name after all.”

“He was in my bedroom.”

“Interesting.” Layton sighed, relaxed his shoulders. “How fascinating, to see you speak plainly. You know when you lie, your chest gets red.”

Idris felt his cheeks flush. How embarrassing.

“Did you harm my cat?” he said, scared. Layton twitched a smile.

“No. But I cannot find him. I wondered if your fae friends had spirited him away.” Layton put a tongue in his cheek. “Willard is fae, isn’t he?”

“Mostly.”

“Hmm. That, I did not expect.” Sniffing, The Remaker moved the staff to his lap. “Let me tell you what I knew from the start. First, I knew you did really intend to kill me. I did not expect you to be so… tender hearted, in that respect. Everything you told me about the Eremonts, that was true. Your leg, also true. But Gleesdale is not your home and you were not alone in your camp. Someone moved it. Willard, perhaps.

“That begged the question of what you wanted from me. You were never honest about your interest in lichdom, so it had only to be the Dead Walker armour, and trust me, Eremont, you are not the first to come searching for it. It was clever of you, the charade with your leg. Feigned or not, it was a… realistic distraction. I do have to commend you on your ingenuity.”

“The thralls send you information,” said Idris, and Layton smiled.

“The thralls send me information,” he murmured.

He knew Idris’s every move. All of the careful planning, the midnight walks – it meant nothing.

“And…” Something else suddenly crept up on Idris. “You could hear my thoughts,” he said, feeling sick.

“Oh, not all of them,” said Layton, running a finger over the staff’s shaft. “But the day we spent casting was enlightening. Your thoughts do run ragged when you are tired. I heard all sorts of things. There is a garden, somewhere, where you read and study, and a girl in a blue dress who calls you Rissy, and a very handsome woman in a purple dress who you daren’t look a fool in front of –“

Idris felt dizzy, all at once. Layton watched him playfully.

“And,” he added, “oh, how self-conscious you are. How much you loathe yourself. How weak and foolish and pathetic you think yourself to be. Too weak, too skinny, too short, too stupid. Just a bastard cripple who was elevated too highly above his station –“

“What do you want?” said Idris finally, hearing the tears and the tremble in his voice. “Did you come to gloat? Gloat away. Congratulations, you won.”

“You are The Puppeteer, but how you hate that name,” said Layton, his own cheeks pink now, a fire of delight in his eyes. “You fought in the Queen’s war and you hated it. You wish to be left alone. You have no desire for the Spirit Glass, absolutely none. I did find that curious but when the fae arrived, oh, Idris, it was plain as day. You are simply a common thief. You wanted to rob me and burn the tower down behind you, and be on your merry way once more.”

“If you care so much about the glass,” said Idris, his neck tense and sore, “why did you give Dravid Orrost the dagger?”

The gleeful air around Layton dropped like shattering glass.

“You think you know so much,” said Idris, finally channelling his hatred. “This is what I know. You gave Orrost’s bastard the Spirit Dagger. You are so miserable about being left out of the kingdom that you likely hoped he would cause enough chaos for you to swoop in at the last minute and save the day, raising the family’s name out of the mud, restoring all of your ancestral honour. But Orrost went rogue, did he not? He made deals of his own. And all you could do was watch while Dravid wove his way through the kingdom, using your dagger, fancying himself some conquering hero.

“Guess who stabbed me, Layton?” Idris hissed, shaking and hot, unable to contain his rage. “Make a good, educated guess.”

The light in Layton’s eyes shifted from joy to confusion.

“He… you –“ he said, gripping the staff.

“I stopped Orrost at Braemar!” Idris shouted. “Me! The bastard cripple! Weak, skinny, short, stupid! I broke your cursed dagger!”

“You broke –“

“Oh yes, into tiny pieces of stardust, it is irreparable. It nearly killed me but Layton, for the look on your face,” said Idris, laughing manically again, “it was worth every second of black bile and seizures.”

“You lie,” said Layton, standing, white and wide-eyed.

“Look in my thoughts, then tell me I am a liar.”

Layton said nothing, did nothing.

“Speechless, now, well there is a thing,” whispered Idris.

“Do you have any idea what you have done?” said Layton.

“A fairly good idea, yes.”

“Why?”

“Your dagger threatened my family,” said Idris, relishing the words on his tongue. “That is why.”

He did not need to spell it out any further. Layton knew. Idris saw it in the slump of his shoulders, the sunken gaze.

“You never intended to stay,” said his father.

“Maybe I did, for a day. I surprised even myself with that thought. But you have shown me all I care to see of what it means to be a Vonner of Raven’s Roost, and Layton, I want no part of it. You have persuaded me very successfully that this is not what I want.”

“I should kill you right now,” said Layton, without venom, without hatred.

“Do it,” said Idris.

But Layton did not move. He sighed, swallowed.

“Then there is no further reason to keep Lord Kurellan alive,” he said.

Idris did not show his fear. He knew Kurellan could look after himself. Still… the tower had defences that he knew nothing about.

“You have made everything remarkably simple for me, Idris,” said Layton, as if in a dream. “I thank you. I will protect our home from all threats. You included.”

He walked away.

“Layton,” said Idris. “The skull in your bedroom –“

“Oh, do not worry about that,” said Layton. “It is family business, after all, and you are not family. By the way,” he added, as he became nothing more than a shadow in the hallway, “I burned the flowers growing in your bedroom. I do not know if the cat was caught in the blaze.”

Then it was silent.

Idris did not sit, lamenting his lost dreams or worrying for his friends. He slid his legs back into the seated position and began to rub his stump on the flagstone edge, frantically, tears dripping off his chin.

“I am sorry, Uncle,” he whispered, over and over, watching the skin redden and peel. “I am so sorry, Uncle. I failed you and I forgot you. It will never happen again. I am so sorry.”

Just as the blood began to bead, Idris heard a mewing in the wall.

“Thistle?” he said, turning. “Thistle, are you…”

Layton had said, once, that he did not know where the cats lived. Perhaps…

Out of a tiny drainage hole in the wall, out popped a grey-and-orange head. Thistle sneezed, mewed again, wriggled out.

“Here, boy,” Idris whispered, abandoning his task. “Here, Thistle.”

Thistle scampered over, crying, and rubbed his cheek against Idris’s bare foot. Idris sniffed, wiped his tears on his shoulder.

“There now, good boy. Here.”

Idris did not know why Thistle’s appearance mattered. The kitten climbed up onto his shoulder, purring, and licked his ear, and Idris worked his stump bloody on the flagstone, thinking of home.