The city rose with a shiver. The cobblestone streets were damp from the dregs of the night’s rain. As soon as Ben stepped outside the Ivy Lodge Hotel, he broke into a brisk walk. He couldn’t outright run to avoid attracting unwanted attention, but he was eager to be as far from the witches as humanely possible.

Before long, Walpole Street led directly to Bierce Square. Ben stopped in his tracks. He regarded the plaza. It all started here, Ben thought. It was there, just a day ago, that he witnessed the serpentine spell used to snatch Sybil and bring her forth.

He tried to remember the boy in black—who, upon retrospection, he now realized would have been a sorcerer—but he was too far away to observe properly at the time. Who was he? Whatever the answer was, it would have to wait until he reunited with his companions in Dool. He felt a twinge of worry for them.

Ben took a deep breath, pushed aside his thoughts, and focused on the present moment. He reminded himself that Sybil was in capable hands. If anything, it was his own safety that demanded attention. He tensed, alert again. He had yet to adjust to his newfound perils. For all he knew, the witches were there, somewhere in the crowd. Ben resumed his pace and left the plaza behind him.

The streets of Dunport-Salem, once a familiar comfort, now felt like a maze of uncertainty. Ben’s heart raced as he walked, a mask of indifference on his face, as if it would somehow make him more invisible. He continued to mull over the events that had transpired. The Circle. Secret factions that fought a secret war. Might’ve gotten more than I bargained for this time, he mused with a resigned sigh.

The port came into view. The docks unsurprisingly bustled with activity. Given the situation he was in, it all felt distant and alien. It felt like he was watching them through a foggy window, tinted and obscured. It wasn’t long before he smelled the tang of saltwater mingled with freshly hewn timber. A pleasant aroma that was quickly overwhelmed by the odor of fish entrails.

In the bay, ships arrived and departed, their weathered sails a testament to the countless voyages they had undertaken. Bales of cotton and crates of tea dominated the bulk of their goods.

The sea disappeared behind a row of buildings. Before him, the houses of the old town sprawled out solemnly, encircling the graveyard like silent guardians. Ben walked some more. As he turned, a familiar sight greeted him, one he had witnessed countless times before. St. Dunsany’s Home for Unsolicited Foundlings. The orphanage.

Guilt struck him like a lightning bolt. He had forgotten about the other orphans, the ones still under the care of the two remaining witches. They were completely oblivious to the danger they were in. But then again, what was he supposed to do? Barge in and start hurling spells at them? He was not yet ready to confront them.

Ben steeled himself. He might not be able to do something now, but there would come a day when he could. This he vowed for his life. Filled with determination, he pried his eyes off from St. Dunsany’s. Hang in there, he thought.

About an hour after he left the hotel, the Portsgate came into view. Ben quickened his pace as the imposing city entrance loomed ahead, its eroded stones worn by time. He felt a mix of excitement and trepidation as he approached the southern archway out of Dunport-Salem. The gate, fortified during the American Revolution a century before, was a sentinel guarding the town’s border; its massive wooden doors were a testament to the town’s history.

A strange sense of finality washed over him. This was the true threshold between his new life and his old one. Pausing before the Portsgate, he turned around. Ben absorbed the scene of Dunport-Salem, knowing it might be the last time he beheld it.

He turned back to the Portsgate and his heart almost skipped a beat. Shocked, he simply stood there, mouth agape. Before him was Miss Toadwart, back in her human form. Even then, she cut a spectral figure.

Her eyes were cold and calculating, and her lips twisted into a malicious smile. His breath caught in his throat, and his muscles tensed in fear. The quickness with which she had found him filled Ben with dread.

“Going somewhere, dearie?” Miss Toadwart’s voice dripped with venom. He immediately reached for the wyrdknife, ready to defend himself if push came to shove. But before Ben could react, Miss Toadwart raised her hand, and a menacing, violet glow enveloped it.

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The Portsgate creaked and groaned into life. Ben felt the now-familiar surge of magic in the air. The doors started to swing shut of their own accord. If he didn’t act now, she would effectively trap him inside the city. He turned to the people in the crowd, a plea for help written on his face. There weren’t many transients to begin with, and the ones that were there seemed to ignore what was occurring before their eyes, going about their daily business. The Rive, Ben realized. He could expect no help from ordinary people.

Ben brandished the wyrdknife. Miss Toadwart’s eyes immediately fixed on it, a covetous glimmer in her gaze. She reared in, face contorted into a disdainful sneer.

“Give it back,” she hissed. “Children shouldn’t play with things that don’t belong to ‘em. ‘Tis is no toy for an ignorant urchin like yerself.”

The resolve of the pledge he had just made before St. Dunsany’s prevailed over his fear. Despite her threatening tone, Ben stood his ground. He narrowed his eyes in defiance. Deep inside, it took all his effort to maintain his composure and keep his legs from trembling.

“Make me,” Ben answered.

Miss Toadwart’s sneer turned into a snarl. Her fingers twitched, ready to cast another spell. “Little fool,” she spat at him. “You’ve no idea who you meddle with. I’ll teach you what it means to defy our coven.”

She raised her hand, extending a finger that emitted a faint, warning glow. She opened her mouth and produced an avian caw, a throat-like noise that felt unnatural coming from a person. Ben heard a distant, immediate response. A thunderous cacophony caused by the flutter of wings grew louder and louder as a massive conspiracy of ravens appeared in the distance, aroused from their nests in the forest. They approached fast, an amorphous blot in the sky. They were headed straight at him.

Ben gritted his teeth and focused all his energy and intent on the wyrdknife. He stared at the blade intently, his eyes narrowing in fierce concentration. The veins in his forehead bulged as he poured every ounce of his willpower into the weapon, his breath a series of ragged gasps.

For all his efforts, the wyrdknife remained unchanged. Panic clawed at the edges of his mind as the ravens closed in. Amidst the chaos, he heard Miss Toadwart’s triumphant laughter. Anger replaced his panic. He let out a deep sigh and stopped his futile attempt to transform the wyrdknife. He closed his eyes for a second. Think, Umber. A scene flashed before him—that of their masked assailant in the alleyway the night before. He remembered the spears he had summoned, the manner in which he had balanced and hurled them.

His eyes snapped open. He would not force it anymore. Ben held the wyrdknife horizontally with his left hand. Touching the base of the blade with his right hand, he slid his finger to the tip of the dagger. You’re not a knife. You’re a spear. It wasn’t a proposition—Ben stated to the wyrdknife its new reality. And it obeyed.

It emanated a crystalline hum, a sound akin to the chime of glass. The blade elongated seamlessly, and the handle transformed into a shaft. In his hands now was a sleek, obsidian spear. A smile tugged at the corners of Ben’s lips as he beheld the wyrdknife-turned-spear.

The ravens bore down on him. This was the opening he needed. Ben raised the spear in a swift motion. He shifted his weight on one leg, like he had seen their enemy do. As the first wave descended upon him, he thrust the spear with all his might.

Which wasn’t much to begin with. After all, Ben was a scrawny teenager, not an adult. He saw the tip of the spear wobble in the air. It wouldn’t strike true. It would probably be deflected the moment it met its target.

A desperate idea sprung to the rescue. The message Wilhelm had left him mentioned that he would now be able to cast the spell he used against Miss Wormwood at will. He would know what to do when the moment came. He didn’t know about that, but he had just figured the wyrdknife out, hadn’t he?

Ben extended his arms before him, palms facing outward. He tried to think of every instance of sorcery he had witnessed so far. He visualized his own spell, an energy wave that emanated from the center of his hands. Clarity replaced all else. Magic surged within him, as if he had tapped into an ancient knowledge etched into his bones.

The words came to him effortlessly, rising from his subconscious like a bubbling wellspring of knowledge. With unwavering confidence, Ben said: “Repel, Void Push.”

The air around him crackled with energy as he spoke the incantation. A sudden force erupted from Ben’s outstretched palms, a translucent barrier that shimmered opaquely in the morning light. The conspiracy of ravens collided against it with a bang that scattered them wildly in all directions.

The spear’s momentum was strengthened by Ben’s spell. It went past the ravens with deadly speed. Its trajectory sliced through the air, emboldened by the magical push. It headed straight at Miss Toadwart.

Her triumphant laughter turned into a shriek of dismay as she realized what was happening. She dove with surprising agility and avoided a fatal blow, but the spear still struck her collarbone. A nasty gash oozed green blood from it.

She let out an animalistic shriek. “Wretch!” Miss Toadwart cursed as she clutched her wound. She wasn’t so full of herself anymore. Their duel had just caught the attention of the crowd, who looked on with curiosity. Ben wondered what they saw as the familiar exhaustion hit him. “Don’t you dare think this is over. I will have my revenge, Benjamin Umber. Me and Miss Ratworth will!”

With these ominous words, she melted into her own shadow and disappeared. Ben was alone again. His nerves were wracked. He quickly ran to secure the wyrdknife—it had reverted back from a spear into a dagger. He sheathed it and slid it inside his jacket.

The Portsgate, which moments ago had a mind of its own, had returned to its normal, inanimate state. Ben sank to his knees. He had faced off against a witch again, and he was unscathed. Not only that, but he had shapeshifted the wyrdknife and cast a spell. Ben felt elated.

He glanced around warily as he rose, half-anticipating another attack. He was safe in the present moment. No use to dally until proven otherwise, Ben thought, and with that, he crossed the Portsgate and began his journey into the Blackwoods.