The Major shouldered into the office and dumped Gray unceremoniously into a chair.

The large window let in soft daylight, illuminating the large tapestry on the wall and the dozens of wanted posters on the other.

Gray couldn’t help himself. He flickered a glance out the window and into the oddly shaped town square. There was a crowd there, like yesterday, bustling in a large clump.

‘You with me, Gray? You’re being very quiet.’ He followed Gray’s gaze. ‘They’re dismantling the stage.’

‘Was there a performance?’ Gray said, stupidly. There had been a parade and a show last week to celebrate the upcoming - now probably cancelled - royal wedding, and to celebrate the beginning of summer.

‘Not quite,’ said Killian.

Something in his tone caught Gray’s frayed attention, and some details clunked into place in his muddy mind.

‘You’re looking at the stage where Branbright was executed yesterday,’ said Killian, ‘for everyone to see.’

There were blackened marks on the cobblestones surrounding it – the marks of a death curse unleashed by a powerful sorcerer.

Gray clenched his jaw. Well, shit.

From his little knowledge of Branbright and his affinity with accidental wandless magic, Gray was hardly surprised he’d released a death curse. Death curses happened rarely – they needed wandless magic to happen – and they happened during the sorcerer’s last moments before death, but they were devastating.

Killian had brought down the wrath of Branbright on himself, on Gray, on everyone involved in Branbright’s death.

Everyone in Krydon was screwed. They were all as good as dead. Everyone, including the Major, all his morally-damaged soldiers.

Gray stared at Killian, his gaze blisteringly angry. Idiot.

He was too angry to unclench his jaw to speak.

‘Problem?’ Killian damned well smiled. He took off his sword and laid it across the desk.

Gray managed a stiff nod.

‘Well, speak, kid.’

‘You – he – unleashed a death curse.’

Gray could barely articulate the words past the hot anger raging through his veins. He tried to remember what he’d learnt about death curses in history in school (how long did they have to stop the worst of it?) but he needed his books to be sure.

He could only remember that the last death curse had been almost one hundred years ago, when the sorcerer Greymeath was killed in a brawl in Dierne. Winter and plagues had swept the city for seven years. It had nearly halved the population before the authorities figured out the cause.

It had been too late to stop it, then. They’d just had to wait it out.

Killian looked out the window. He strode over, hand pressed against the glass. He glanced back at Gray.

‘Why would you think that, kid?’

‘Look at the scorch marks.’

‘You see scorch marks?’ said Killian.

‘They’re right there!’

‘You feel something?’

Gray felt nothing but anger and fear, and his pulse in the wound on his head, and his ankle, and where Killian had hit him.

‘Hm?’ Killian’s lips were tight.

Gray gave a tiny shake of his head. A tiny shrug.

‘General knows about sorcerers,’ said Killian. ‘So does Darcy. One of them, surely, would’ve removed Branbright’s tongue.’

Gray curled his toes in his boots, his heart hammering. ‘You weren’t there? Ask your General –‘

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

‘He’s gone. He and Darcy had their own orders. They’ll be unreachable for a few days.’

Gray’s mouth fell open. He stared at the town court.

‘I’ll get my mage to check,’ Killian said, ‘when she wakes.’

Killian quietly sat on the edge of his desk. He poured Gray some water into a chipped teacup, out of the old kettle sitting on the fireplace. He handed him a draught Gray was familiar with - they'd used it for headaches back at the tavern.

The pain ebbed away.

Slowly, deliberately, Killian pulled Branbright’s scarf out of the top desk drawer.

Gray sat bolt upright. ‘You went into my room?’

‘The attic?’ Killian said. ‘Yeah.’

The thought of this Major traipsing around his room, going through the place that was his and Alistair’s, was almost more than Gray could bear.

Gray closed his eyes, just for a second.

‘Where’d you get this, kid?’ said Killian.

Gray swallowed.

‘I ask, you answer,’ said Killian. ‘It’s the last time I'll warn you. Where’d you get this? It’s a lot nicer than anything else you own.’

Gray hesitated, knowing the truth was not going to sound good. ‘It - someone gave it to me.’

Killian leant on the desk, his polished boots crossed at the ankles. Angled sunlight deepened the scars on his face. ‘Who?’

Reluctantly, ‘Branbright.’

‘Not Longwark?’ said Killian.

Gray gave a slight shake of his head.

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why would Branbright give you this very valuable scarf?’

‘I - don’t know,’ said Gray.

‘These scarves offer protection - but you know what else they can do?’ said Killian. ‘They can be used to call or signal the owner.’

Gray felt his eyes widen. He started shaking his head.

'I'll ask you again. Are you sure it's not Longwark's?'

'No. Look, I think you've got the wrong end of the stick with Longwark,' said Gray. 'He's just a mage, he fought in the war against Krupin, against Wilde, he's weirdly loyal to the king - to Lismere-‘

'I know his history,' said Killian. His grip tightened around the scarf. ‘Why would Branbright give you this?’

‘He was a guest at the tavern,’ said Gray. ‘That’s all. He was nice.’

‘Nice?’

For a second, Killian reminded Gray of Alistair. The tilt of the head, the careful gaze, the tone of voice. Gray struggled to get a grip on himself, to not fall apart. He wiped sweat out of his eyes.

‘He gave me the scarf,’ said Gray, ‘as a tip. He gave me lots of tips.’

‘That’s called collecting, kid.’

‘It wasn’t like that!’

Killian put his scarred hands up, placatingly. ‘In my field of work, it’s what we call it when a sorcerer finds a younger sorcerer they want to mentor, and recruits them.’

Gray shook his head. Branbright hadn’t been trying to do that.

‘There aren’t a whole lot of sorcerers around, kid,' said Killian, 'so when a master sorcerer finds a half-decent potential apprentice, they pull out all the stops to collect.’

‘Even if he was,’ said Gray, ‘even though he - to me - was a good man, I wouldn’t have gone with him.’

Killian stayed very still. ‘Why’s that?’

‘A sorcerer - killed my family. You think I don't know that? I want nothing to do with magic. I'm definitely no sorcerer. I'd never agree to learn anything from any sorcerer. You're giving me way too much credit - I'm not anything - I'm not -’

Gray stopped himself. He was gibbering. His fear was spilling out.

‘See,’ Killian said, ‘the problem with that - with anything you say - is that a sorcerer will lie through his teeth, and feel no anxiety, no hitch of confidence, nothing. How do I know you’re not lying?’

‘Give me a truth potion.’

‘Truth potions are a myth, kid. I have to go by my gut. My gut tells me that you’re exhibiting a lot of aggressive behaviour - and way too much power - for a mage.’

‘That’s not true - I’ve seen Longwark -’ Gray cut himself off, his stomach sinking.

Killian stayed silent, his dark eyes watching.

‘Longwark gets angry,’ Gray whispered. ‘He has a temper.’

‘Violent?’ said Killian. ‘Kind of a psychopathic dick?’

Gray closed his eyes. Sometimes.

Could he have been wrong about Longwark? Everyone in Krydon had been wrong about Longwark? This whole time …

‘I’m shocked,’ said Killian, ‘that he’s been accused of sorcery.’

Gray let out a shuddering breath.

‘Longwark had you working for him, didn’t he?’ said Killian. ‘You’d run errands with him?’

‘No.’

‘You sure about that?’

Gray frowned. ‘I’m sure.’

His jaw clicked. For a second, his shoulders bunched, like he was going to strike out.

Gray flinched, but after a long moment nothing happened. He cautiously opened his eyes.

Killian stared at Gray. ‘See, that raises a few questions. If I’m to believe what you say. Because, I’ve been looking at some of the old Captain’s paperwork.’

He slid a thick piece of parchment towards Gray. It was curled at the corners and looked like it had been handled a lot.

It had Gray’s face on it. It had his thick eyebrows lowered with the thin scar slicing through the left. It had his lips lifted in a snarl so he looked more menacing than anything he could achieve in real life. The words on it were in a foreign script, Othoan script, but it was clear what it was.

A wanted poster.

It took Gray an age to process what was in front of him. The anger that swarmed and buzzed like mites inside his veins slowly died and turned to ice.

Then Killian slid another wanted poster across the desk. It was the same foreign script, the same menacing layout, but with Longwark’s face instead of Gray’s.