Killian woke up and all he could see was fire.

After he figured out he wasn’t being burned alive or dying - which, admittedly, took him longer than it should’ve - Killian crashed into the bathroom.

A knife stabbed through the timber frame of the mirror, holding a note written in the kid’s messy scrawl and a ten ardent note.

Killian,

If you’re reading this,

Here’s ten for the sorcerer you just missed.

C

Killian’s knife. From his locked weapons chest.

Killian’s ten ardent note.

It was damn ruined.

A smouldering bowl lay on the tiled floor, and the window over the bathtub was open, letting in cool night air.

And no Gray.

‘Gods.’

Killian barely registered the urge to punch a hole in the wall.

Very carefully, Killian kept a hold of himself. Precisely, and with restraint, Killian strode over to the window and checked below.

No shadow scaling down the side of the Hall.

No stupid-damn-shadow lying prone right below him on the ground.

No shadow darting across the garden.

So, no prize money, no finder’s fee, no award ceremony for special services for the kingdom, no gifts of land.

No Griffin to present to Baldwin as specifically instructed.

The kid was suffering from melancholy. It had made Killian complacent, thinking he had the kid resigned. Pliant for the journey to Dierne and for the presentation with Baldwin.

But, maybe, it worked the opposite way with the kid.

It happened sometimes. Sometimes melancholy made a prisoner dreadfully reckless.

That’s when about half of Killian’s men rushed in with buckets of water and fire blankets.

Then - THEN - a second explosion went off underneath their feet. It was so big it shook the entire Hall.

The ceiling cracked. Plaster fell into Killian’s eyes.

Fire licked out of the windows beneath them. Fire so big, so bright, it was lighting up the entire night sky, blocking out the view of the stars and moon. Fire that crept back up to their floor, so that Killian hurriedly gestured for the men to shut the bedroom doors against the racing flames pouring towards them.

There was something wrong with the fire.

It had no heat.

It made the air sting with an acidity that had Killian concerned about drawing breath into his lungs, and about his men being exposed to it for too long.

Killian would not send his men into that fire. He’d seen fire weaponised too many times, by sorcerers and mages alike, to risk his men being enchanted or cursed if they were to pass through it.

Killian shouted - over the explosive fire - for the men to divide into groups and sweep the town.

They couldn’t go down the stairs. Killian had to send the men out the damn window.

An unpleasant sensation built inside Killian’s chest.

The sort of magic to pull off this fire was on par with Krupin.

The kid had been hiding his abilities very convincingly. If the kid could fahren, things were about to get very difficult for Killian. If he couldn’t fahren … well, the kid still had the jinx in him. It’d be there for a good week or longer. Killian would be able to track him easily. And the kid’s ankle was wrecked. Killian would be faster. He’d catch up to the kid in no time.

Killian had been blindingly stupid. He made himself breathe - calm, calmly - and push his mind past the all-consuming rage that was threatening to overwhelm him. He’d been taken in by the kid. The kid looked like a lost damn deer. Acted like a damn lost deer.

But he wasn’t.

Of course he wasn’t.

This was Conor Griffin.

This kid had wiped out one of Wilde’s lackeys, wandlessly, as a bleeding child.

Killian needed to know exactly what the kid could do.

He needed to know exactly how screwed he was.

But, he couldn’t be rash.

No panic.

No more bad or weak choices.

So, when Killian could finally access the stairs, when he’d taken a calming breath, he stalked down the stairs with no sense of hurry. He went down to the prison.

And stopped short.

He stalled on the bottom step of the prison, his lips parting.

His men were gone from their posts. The damn idiots must’ve been spooked by the explosions.

He’d flay them.

If Baldwin found out, he’d execute them.

The cell doors. They were all swung open.

And the cells were empty.

Empty.

Killian’s mouth turned to ash. His insides crumbled. He was hollow.

The keys were in one of the locks. The keys Killian had instructed Codder to keep safe. Had Codder done this? Surely not. He had no reason, no motivation, to free the damn guards and Ralph kids.

The kid had done this. The kid had asked Killian to free them …

Had the kid managed to steal the keys off Codder? And Codder hadn’t even noticed, hadn’t even reported them missing?

The breathless words came out of Killian, tearing through the carefully curated calm within him, ‘holy fuck.’

He turned on his heel, to race back up the prison stairs.

Stopped himself.

Curled his sweating fingers into fists.

There was one door still locked.

His door. Longwark.

He needed to speak to him.

He needed to do it now.

Keeping tight control of his breath, Killian stalked to the last cell - the only cell that still had a locked door.

’Sorcerer.’ Killian unhooked a lamp from the wall.

Not that Killian needed the lamp. His eyesight in the dark was good. And the light from the fire above, still sparking, still glowing, provided some visibility.

But he wanted Longwark to see him. See every battle scar, the dark intent in his eyes, and the expression he’d carefully cultivated for when he needed to be obeyed, no questions asked.

Killian opened Longwark’s cell and set the lamp onto the dank floor.

Longwark slowly rolled over and sat up on the pallet. His appearance nettled under Killian’s skin. His hair was wild and frizzed out around his head as though it could barely contain the static of his magic. His tattooed runes over his left eyebrow and ear and neck were smudged over with grime and bruises and blood.

He reeked.

He folded his arms. Raised his eyebrows. ‘It wasn’t me.’

Killian stayed calm. ‘I know it wasn’t you.’

‘Don’t lose your shit-‘

Killian hit him. Under the jaw. Right where he knew it would hurt Longwark most. It killed Killian’s fist, but Longwark was too busy gasping and rolling away to see Killian’s grimace of pain.

‘My shit is firmly under control, sorcerer.’ Killian breathed out. Slowly. So slowly. ‘You haven’t been entirely honest with me about the kid. Have you?’

‘What did he do?’ said Longwark. ‘He’s run?’

Killian settled his shoulders against the far wall, refusing to shiver from the feeling of Longwark’s magic, from the prolonged eye contact from his intense ice-grey eyes. He made himself stand like time wasn’t a problem, like he didn’t desperately want to be tracking the kid this very second.

‘Are you trying to ask me questions, sorcerer? You know how that goes for you.’

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If Killian hadn’t been watching Longwark so closely, he would’ve missed the tiny twitch of Longwark’s upper lip. Stark satisfaction curled in Killian’s stomach. He was getting to the bastard.

‘Why do you think I haven’t been honest, Major?’ Longwark said.

Killian surveyed him. His ice-grey eyes and his axe-wielder body. He was a damned liar. And a traitor. His head should’ve been separated from his body already, for what he’d done.

Stealing from Othoa while the wards were down to accept Sorena, in preparation for her and the emperor’s son’s marriage. Leaving a pathway open through the border walls, which could draw Wilde back into their kingdom.

Or Krupin.

Killian suppressed a deep shudder.

All in exchange for an old wish jar the Othoans had hoarded.

The Othoans hoarded and guarded magical objects like a mother dragon guarding eggs. They had precious few mages. Lismere had taken most of them during a series of wars and raids, centuries ago. Not Lismere’s finest hour. Othoa compensated for their lack of mages by hoarding magical items.

If Lismere - Killian - couldn’t return the jar, there’d be war again.

Lismere couldn’t afford it yet. Not yet.

They were still recovering from Krupin, Wilde, and D’Oncray demolishing their mage population.

Longwark’d deliberately hidden his sorcery ancestry. He’d expertly concealed what he was from his apprenticeship at the guild to his service in the army. Baldwin had trusted him - the whole royal family had trusted him. He’d been given the highest honours and awards in the fight against Krupin.

If Killian had to guess, Longwark had likely been acting as a kind of double agent. And he’d never been caught.

He’d been flipping awarded.

‘Did you,’ said Killian, ‘instruct him on how to perform his little stunt tonight?’

‘What is it?’ said Longwark. His accent was thick. His swollen jaw made his words slur. Killian struggled to understand him.

Longwark had the gall to turn his back to Killian, as he peered out the window.

‘I only heard a ruckus,’ said Longwark. ‘I assume it’s some sort of curse fire bomb-’

‘It’s a fire that doesn’t burn. A fire that snakes and curls and sparks like a giant firework.’

Longwark actually started laughing. He laughed so hard that tears streamed out of his intense eyes.

‘That isn’t magic, you fool,’ he wheezed, when he’d finally controlled himself. ‘That is firebreath. It’s a basic composition of phoenix and salt -‘

Killian cut him off with a sharp jab to his swollen eye.

‘I didn’t tell him how to do it,’ hissed Longwark, holding his eye. ‘Well, I did. In class. It’s alchemy. Your dimmest halfwit of a non-mage soldier could do it. It went very wrong, by the sounds of it. I don’t know why. Maybe he didn’t do it right.’ He paused. ‘Don’t they teach firebreath in the alchemy classes in the Dierne schools?’

‘Wasn’t raised in Dierne.’ Killian clenched his jaw. With sorcerers, his extra senses were useless. He couldn’t tell if Longwark was stressed or if he was angry or excited. Longwark’s heartbeat drummed a steady and calm thud, thud, thud.

But, it was likely he was lying.

It was in a sorcerer’s nature to deceive.

‘Alchemy,’ said Killian, straining to keep the heat out of his voice. His hands shook. He shoved them deep into his pockets. ‘Not magic.’

Longwark raised a bushy eyebrow. His tattoos moved.

‘What magic is the kid capable of?’ said Killian. ‘Can he farhen?’

‘I don’t know.’

Killian flexed his fist.

Longwark shifted. ‘If he can, you’re shit out of luck.’

Silence stretched.

‘Can,’ repeated Killian, struggling to push down the unpleasant sensation in his chest, ‘he fahren?’

‘Professional opinion?’ said Longwark. ‘Unlikely.’

Silence.

Killian tilted his head one way. Then the other. Looked Longwark dead in the eye. His heartbeat was still the steady thud, thud, thud.

‘He has a block,’ said Longwark. His tone was on the very edge of insolence that Killian would allow from a prisoner.

Killian pushed down his reaction and pushed down the spike of surprise. A block. That was a steaming pile of bullshit if he'd ever heard it. He remained casually leant against the damp prison wall, crossing his ankles, and watched the shifting light on Longwark’s face and body as the firebreath and the guttering lamp waxed and waned.

‘Even if you’ve used some very nasty tactics,’ said Longwark with a slow smile, ‘to prematurely shake loose his hold on his magic, to speed up his first ryece, he can do cheap tricks but nothing real. Yet. That's my guess.’

‘You’d know about those tactics,’ said Killian, softly, refusing to be baited into asking why the damn he'd want to speed up the kid's ryece. ‘Wasn’t it you who caused the Hury explosion in the Dierne barracks, fifteen years ago?’

The smile slid off Longwark’s face. ‘You know nothing about that. Fifteen years ago you were still in training diapers.’

‘Fifteen years ago I was twenty. And already a major of Lismere’s best field team, because I was that good.’

‘Good until your defeat at the mage guild massacre. Good until Wilde stole the sacred sword of Clochaint right out of your hands.’ Longwark clicked his tongue. ‘Devastating, that. I remember the reports in the news journals and military scrolls.’

Killian raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, I understand. We’re trading stories about career failures. I’d tell you some more of yours, but I don’t have enough time for that tonight.’

‘And good,’ said Longwark, raising his slurring voice, ‘until you failed to report for guard duty at the Griffin home the night Wilde turned up. Isn’t that why you’re now in charge of this league of petty criminals and dregs? Too many colossal fuck ups and the king’s been punishing you ever since.’

With great difficulty, Killian turned on his heel. Away.

‘I’ve been a good prisoner, haven’t I?’ said Longwark.

Killian steeled his body, his face.

Longwark had a habit of throwing unexpected words like gas clouds. They’d sit in your psyche and slowly release over time, making you question everything.

Sorcerers would do this.

Mind messers.

’Not resisted once,’ said Longwark. ‘Didn’t even try to leave when you shoved him in my cell - which was transparent as hell, by the way. I’m not working for Wilde. I’m not trying to start a war with Othoa. I’ve not been secretly instructing the boy. Take me to the king and let me speak to him.’

Killian ran a finger along his jaw, feeling the bristles, studying Longwark.

‘Or,’ said Longwark, ‘I can help you get the boy back. Quickly. Quietly. Let me out, and give me my wand.’

Killian kept his face still. ‘Please, yes, please. I need the help of a sorcerer who can’t even do wandless magic. One who’s so bad at magic, he’s been mistaken for a mage his whole life. Just what I’ve been looking for.’

‘You think every sorcerer is doing wandless magic like Krupin?’ Longwark tutted his tongue softly. ‘Oh, Major, you really do need my help.’

Killian gave a breathless laugh.

‘You’ve got no mage here,’ said Longwark. ‘Your men are rubbish. The king sends you his worst. You’re so fucked, you can already feel the bite of the king’s sword at your neck. You’ve no idea what kind of mess you’re in.’ Longwark leant forward. ‘You need me.’

This was a waste of time. Longwark was screwing with him. Killian had a kid to catch.

‘Right,’ said Killian. ‘You stay here, sorcerer.’ He tapped Longwark on his bruised cheek and stalked out of the cell.

He strode past the empty cells, forcing calm over the raging heat within him.

Killian paused, almost at the foot of the dirty stone steps. He stared up at the light coming down the prison stairs.

There was a soft whoosh of wings behind him.

From the last cell.

Crows wings.

Killian spun on the spot and sprinted back down the corridor.

Sprinted harder.

Faster.

Longwark’s rough voice was muttering the incantation - one that Killian knew by heart - and just as Killian skidded into Longwark’s cell, there was a huge CRACK.

Static hung in the air.

Longwark.

Freaking Longwark.

Gone.

Killian’s gaze swept the empty cell. His mind refused to believe it.

A crow had flown here, and delivered Longwark, what? - his wand, chalk?

And Longwark had fahrened.

‘FUCK!’

There should've been wards on those windows. There should've been nothing getting in or out, but this was the damn backwaters of Lismere and not a damn thing was up to code.

Killian pounded out into the town square.

Rage tore through him. The night air was cold against his hot skin. People lingered in the square. Mostly townsfolk. Some soldiers stood on watch, walking in pairs, but most of them were gone, searching the streets and wilderness nearby for the kid.

The Hall windows still glowed and sparked with the dying firebreath fire.

Killian glanced around, searching for Jessica's familiar broad-shouldered form, but she wasn't anywhere nearby. He turned, to go check her room.

And stopped.

The ground shuddered beneath Killian. He glanced up, scanning the sky for a fresh danger or attack.

He smelt them before he saw them.

Horses.

Hundreds of them.

The few soldiers left, the few townsfolk still loitering, screamed and ran for shelter.

Killian darted up the Hall entrance steps, out of the way.

A huge, confused herd of horses stampeded through the town, shaking the cobbled streets, knocking over signs and plants and benches, whinnying and neighing and screaming.

Slowly, they filtered out. A few straggling horses jogged after the herd.

Killian stalked back down the steps, barely able to think through the wrath tearing through his body.

Through the haze of his anger, Killian was aware of Krydon’s guards - the damn guards that the kid had let out of the prison - were knocking on people’s homes.

Stirring Krydon awake.

Speaking guttural northern.

Codder swaggered up, pale and sweaty. ‘Bit weird. Think that was the kid, Major?’

‘Yes, it was the damn kid,’ Killian snapped. He drew in a long breath. This was good news. The kid hadn’t - couldn’t - fahren. Longwark hadn’t been lying about that, at least. And the kid had forgotten - or didn’t know about, not properly - the jinx. ‘He’s on horseback. He’s trying to cover his tracks with a Horse Calling Curse.’

Codder winced. ‘About that. Got a fresh trail, Major. Believe he’s headed east and then up to the forest.’

Killian eyed him, his chest heaving. He strained to keep his mind clear. He’d never had such a humiliating fuck up in his entire career. He’d fix it. Else he’d lose his damn stars. Right on the eve of some of the most important people in the kingdom were due to arrive.

But, something was off. With Codder. Something was always bloody off with Codder. Most of the time, Killian didn’t want to know. Codder could’ve been great. But, he was his own worst enemy.

‘The kid,’ said Killian, heat thrumming under his skin. ‘He’s all over you.’

Codder shifted under Killian’s gaze. He swallowed. Inched back. His hand fluttered to his pocket where he kept his cigarettes and handkerchief.

Something caught Killian’s attention out of the corner of his eye.

It was his movement. The kid’s stumbling hobble.

Killian shoved Codder out of the way and sprinted down a side alley.

It was dark, and the shadows cast by the tall houses made it hard to catch.

But, it was him. His slight form and tousled ponytail. The damn kid.

Killian chased him through the winding alley.

Around a tight corner.

‘Gray,’ Killian shouted.

The kid turned, just enough for Killian to see the angle of his cheek, the curl of his dark lashes. The kid hurried faster down a deserted street.

Killian closed in on him. The kid was only feet away. He kept hobbling, staggering and pushing himself off against the walls. He stumbled around another corner, towards the dive where Killian got his coffee from the night cafe in Shadewalk Lane. Killian knew it was a dead end. Knew he had the little bastard.

His fingertips snatched the back of the kid’s sweater.

The kid disappeared.

Silently.

Like smoke. Like nothing.

Killian froze, his empty hand outstretched. His pulse thudded in his ears.

This trick.

This illusion.

It was the oldest one.

Killian spun on the spot, dirt grinding under his heels, gazing into the quiet shadows of the narrow street.

Heard the shifting of many pairs of feet behind him. Heard the smooth draw of a sword.

’Turn around, nice and easy,’ said a deep voice Killian had never heard before. A smooth voice. Almost silky, almost … thrilling.

A mage’s voice.

A grown one. One that had mastered his power.

Killian turned around. A huge man with auburn braids and fierce - luminous - eyes had a machete levelled at Killian’s throat. Behind him stood five others, wands and swords raised, grim-faced and intense-eyed.

‘Nice of you to show up,’ Killian said. ‘You must be the Ralphs. Not the best time, though.’

The northern mages did not look pleased.

Killian’s hands trembled.

Behind him, emerging from the dark homes, axes and knives glinting in the moonlight, townsfolk. They were surrounding him from behind, cutting off his exit in this dead end street.

Killian knew they were assembling throughout the entire town.

Knew the fight that was coming.

From the mages.

From the townsfolk.

He’d fucking destroy them all.

He shifted into his wolf form and attacked.