Gray squeezed through the blackness.

Tumbling, rolling.

He was buffeted one way and then another.

There was no air.

And then he slammed onto the ground on a hill just outside a hamlet.

His palms skidded on dewy grass. The sweet scent of grass cascaded over him.

The smell of livestock and gentle smoke, too.

There was a tumble of men, as they fought to right themselves from being thrown onto the ground. Swords tripped them, uniforms were soiled by grass and dirt.

Yessi sat hunched on the ground next to Gray, drinking one of the potions from her belt.

The roofs of the homes in the hamlet below were thatched instead of the northern style of tiles and steep spires. The sunlight breaking through the clouds was stronger and brighter than what Gray was used to in the north.

Yessi was drawing a circle into the ground.

They weren’t at their final destination, Gray realised. They were south, but not so far south as Dierne. They were preparing to fahren again.

And Gray thought, this was it, if there was a time to get out of this, it was now. All he had to do was dive out of the circle right before Yessi muttered those final words to the enchantation.

As though sensing his thoughts, Darcy’s hand was on the scruff of Gray’s neck, dragging him into the centre of the circle.

Yessi chanted the words, and then they were plunged into darkness once more.

They slammed hard onto smooth, pale cobblestones. Noise roared around Gray. Voices, people, traffic, light, the crash of the sea bombarded his senses. He was in a city.

A huge one.

He was in Dierne.

And there was a huge magical presence nearby.

It hummed in the air, it drew Gray’s attention up a set of grand marble steps in front of him.

Killian fought his way through the chaotic crush of freshly fahrenned.

‘Sir,’ said Killian, white as a sheet, adjusting his grip on Longwark’s huge form over his shoulder, ‘listen to me-’

‘Come, Killian,’ said Darcy. ‘Bring Longwark with me.’

Darcy was flushed red. The gold stitching strained on his uniform and the hair was askew on his balding head.

Gray rubbed his watering eyes and then hissed as Darcy shook him.

‘Stand up straight.’

‘Just let me walk,’ said Gray, his lips numb. ‘Stop dragging -’

Darcy’s finger was in Gray’s face, in the small space between his eyes. ‘Don’t. Bloody. Talk.’

Four guards were approaching them - at least, Gray assumed they were guards because of their swords and their stature - but these were not city guards.

They were dressed like mages. Layered robes, hoods, wands in holsters.

Gold masks covered their faces.

Darcy was completely unfazed. He pointed to the stars on his uniform and shoved them aside. ‘Make way.’

And they did. They stepped back.

Darcy dragged Gray up the marble steps. Gray stumbled, trying to get his body to work faster, to get his legs underneath him, to get his head to clear. The soldiers and officials had scattered, Yessi had disappeared, Killian had shouted for his men to wait at the barracks. Gray turned, his Othoan red shirt and dragon scale vest twisting in Darcy’s clawed grip, and the vest was laced too tightly for Gray to slip out of, and he was hit with the full weight of the realisation that he wasn’t going to be able to slip free.

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This was going to happen.

He was being taken to the king.

His lungs wouldn’t work.

His heart beat a tattoo in his chest.

He glimpsed towering, sheer walls of marble and gold. Towers and towers of it.

Towers scraped the clouds.

Almost too blindingly brilliant to look at, in the afternoon sun.

And Gray could feel it.

The overwhelming magical hum that almost vibrated the air, that swathed his skin like a warm breath.

Gray swallowed.

This had to be the mage guild.

Gray clenched his eyes shut, impatiently wiping his face on his sleeve, stumbling up the steps. The marble steps were unending. Every inch of them was polished and glittering. Smooth. Ancient and pristinely kept in a way that screamed wealth and power. Darcy dragged Gray faster than he could keep up, holding him too high, so that he was slipping on the polished marble.

Darcy passed more guards, shouting commands at them, and knocking them aside with his broad shoulders when they didn’t move fast enough.

The air buzzed this close to the mage guild.

Gray had never been near a large magical institution, or any magical institution, and it gave the air a thrill, a life, that brought his own magic to his skin.

Darcy shook Gray again. ‘Control it.’

It was controlled. Mostly. It flared up and down, as fear and magic tore through Gray, only to dissolve moments later.

Gray gasped as the full front of the guild came into view.

It was a palace, as large as a city.

Power emanated from every inch of glistening marble.

It was built, right up to the very edge of a sheer cliff that dropped straight down to a crashing ocean. It was so close to the cliff edge that it might tumble into the waters.

There were more and more people as they neared the top of the marble steps.

More pressing magic.

Too much magic.

It was piling onto Gray like too many thick blankets on a sweltering summer night.

There were mages here. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them.

Gray’s skin flared, too hot, too bright.

Marble was carved and shaped into dragons guarding the grand stretch of space before the guild entrance, life-size and intricately detailed. Rubies glinted in place of their eyes.

The area in front of the golden front doors to the guild stretched as far as a country field and it was crammed with mages.

It was a riot of coloured robes and movement.

Dancing.

Celebrating summer.

Gray was overrun by the sensation of a thousand different magical signatures.

A thousand different scents of food, laughter, and music. Brightly coloured flags and banners fluttered in the breeze edged in sea salt.

Darcy dragged Gray through the crowd. It parted for him, growing quiet, the laughter and music slowing. The people stilled their revelry, watching.

Darcy seemed to be searching, searching.

But he mustn’t have found who he wanted, because he suddenly halted and threw Gray onto the ground. Gray landed hard, and got his hands out just in time to stop himself falling on his face, his nose inches from the marble ground.

‘Stay down.’

The cool tip of his sword pressed through Gray’s hair on the nape of his neck. The crowd was silent.

‘You so much as think of moving, and I’ll slice you open,’ said Darcy. ‘Eyes down!’

Gray glared hard at the marble ground, at the swirls of gold and cream mixed into white, his hands trembling in front of his face. His magic flared enough to burst something glass nearby.

People screamed.

‘Get the king,’ said Darcy. ‘I have a gift for him, in celebration of the summer festival.’

A piece of popcorn, trodden into the marble, was close to Gray’s left pinkie finger. He stared at it, barely able to keep himself in this awkward kneel.

Gray desperately tried to remember what Killian had told him.

Bow.

Don’t look him in the eye.

Don’t speak-

‘Major General Darcy.’ The voice that exclaimed this was ancient. Deep. Vibrating with raw power.

Gray didn’t dare look up.

Didn’t dare move.

‘You interrupt our summer festival,’ continued the voice. ‘What will our visitors think of Lismere?’

‘Grand High Master,’ said Darcy. ‘This is a gift I wish to personally present to the king.’

‘The king is with important guests. He is fostering delicate relations at the moment.’

‘I will wait,’ said Darcy, ‘right here, with his gift, if he cannot come now.’

There was a strained silence.

‘One of your gifts,’ said the Grand High Master, ‘is uncontrolled. He appears to be untrained. I do not advise you to wait here with such a tempestuous gift in the middle of a crowd of people.’

‘He’s wearing a dragon scale vest,’ said Darcy. ‘I would not be so foolhardy, Grand High Master.’

‘May I also advise you,’ said the Grand High Master, stepping closer and his voice dropping, ‘a gift displaying uncontrolled magic like this is humiliating not only for our guild - especially in front of our international guests - but also for our country’s reputation.’

Darcy took a long moment to answer. The pressure from his sword eased on the back of Gray’s neck. ‘He’s not one of yours … there’s no shame reflected on you …’

Something rippled through the crowd.

A chill.

A silence.

Gray glanced up, for the smallest of moments. There was a large crowd pressing close. There was a mixture of mages and ordinary, ethnicities and nationalities, old and young.

The air coming from the crowd was not friendly.

It was scandalised.

Fearful.

Offended.

Dimly, Gray was aware of someone pointing to his wrist and he glanced down. His sleeve had been pulled up. Wilde’s X was out for everyone to see.

An old mage stood in front of Gray and Darcy, with long silvery hair twisted back and wearing layered golden robes. His bright eyes - eyes surrounded by weathered and aged skin - were fixed on Darcy as though he was a mildly interesting spectacle.

And the crowd was wordlessly parting behind him.

For one man.

He was as Gray had seen in the news scrolls delivered from Dierne. As he’d seen on the ten ardent note.

His silvery hair was braided back. The angular, haughty angles of his face caught the afternoon light. Powerfully built, he walked forward as a panther might stalk through a deadly jungle. Confident.

Unbothered.

He had a sword at his hip, partially concealed in his layers of mage robes. His wand was stowed away in a leather holster on his wrist, but everyone knew he didn’t need it. He could do wandless magic as easily as Wilde and Krupin.

Being in his presence was like being next to lightning in a jar.

Baldwin Auguste, king of Lismere.