The next two books arrived one day later, stamped with the approval of the prison inspector and with an accompanying note:

Read fast.

The guard - who Gray had learnt was called Bob - passed Gray the books and note, along with the news scroll for the day, with raised eyebrows and a tight jaw. Gray waited for Bob to say something about the books, but, instead, he glanced down at the news scroll in stony silence.

Conor Griffin’s face was plastered over the front.

He’d attacked a village in the north. The north, weakened by their absence of mages, had been razed. And that absence of mages was spreading further and further south each week. Not that the presence of mages seemed to make any difference to Conor.

He’d been spotted in Old Town, which was home to several powerful mage families.

In Roolie, which had a training ground for novice mage soldiers.

In Dierne.

He’d blown up two of Dierne’s main mills and supplies of wheat and oats. He’d capsized the king’s prized fleet. Killed a mage soldier with an overall stat score of 1000.

A mage with an overall stat score of 1000 was impossibly strong. A mage like that was likely on par with the Augustes in terms of power.

Gray stared at the news scroll, his ears ringing.

There was no mention of the vampiric sorcerer in Krydon being the cause of the mages disappearing from the north, leaving the towns and people there so vulnerable to Conor.

Bob reached through the bars and tapped Gray on the wrist - right where his X scar was - to get his attention. He was saying something, and with a huge effort, Gray brought himself back.

‘… rations will be cut.’

Gray drew in a short breath. ‘Pardon?’

‘All rations will be cut,’ said Bob.

Bob was older than the hills, with a few wisps of white hair clinging to his temples, and age spots covering his withered skin. He had a surprisingly strong grasp, though, and had fast eyes and speedy reflexes. Gray’d had to change his hiding spot for his luna moth and limestone every day because Bob was so switched on and had searched Gray’s cell almost daily.

Unspoken words hung in the air between Gray and Bob. Cut rations would mean some very unhappy prisoners. Unhappy prisoners could mean serious trouble.

‘The prisoners are always the first to get their rations cut,’ said Bob, lowering his voice, ‘when food chain supplies go down.’

Gray carefully kept his gaze away from any of his neighbours.

‘What’s Conor playing at, eh?’ said Bob. ‘What’s he trying to achieve?’

Gray frowned down at the news scroll. How was he supposed to know what Conor was trying to achieve? Killian’s words rippled through him sorcerers rarely have a discernible agenda.

The neighbours around Gray were calling. Enough of the prisoners had received their news scroll that the latest devastation caused by Conor was spreading. The prisoners were putting two and two together. Conor’s name was whipping past Gray in hissing whispers and furious, outraged shouts.

‘He’s coming for you?’ said Bob, lowering his voice even further.

Gray’s instinct was to say no.

But, he didn’t know this. All he knew about Conor was that he was powerful, looked like Ryan Griffin, and was Wilde's protege.

Gray glanced down at the X on his wrist.

Fear was beginning to shred his insides at the thought of coming face-to-face with him.

-

Gray reread the last page in 1001 Uses For Tears, Blood, and Sweat for the tenth time, his hands gripped in his hair.

The book was propped on his knees as he sat huddled on his bed, desperately trying to find something - anything - that would be helpful in figuring out what a vampiric sorcerer would want with seven sets of tears.

But, Gray didn’t know enough. He needed a whole damn library to cross-reference any reports on vampiric sorcerers and the history of Krydon and rituals of the dark and magical kind.

He didn’t even know if he was poking around in the right direction. Maybe it wasn’t a ritual about tears, or maybe it wasn't a ritual at all. Maybe he had everything wrong.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

So, when footsteps neared Gray’s cell with a steady finality, Gray winced.

He had nothing to give Codder.

Perhaps - perhaps he could convince Codder to get him some more books, or swap these ones out for-

‘Open on Griffin,’ said an unfamiliar voice.

Gray started up, the book tumbling off his lap. A royal guard stood outside his cell, his gold mask glinting in the light from the hall. His robes brushed the concrete floor and his wand was held ready in his hand. Bob opened Gray’s cell and let him in.

The royal guard barely glanced at Gray, said absolutely nothing, as he drew a chalk circle on the floor.

‘In,’ commanded the royal guard.

Gray’s heart hammered. It hadn’t been seven weeks. He’d not gotten in trouble - as far as he knew - with any of the prison officials. Unless they’d found the luna moth and the limestone without Gray realising.

‘Where are we going?’ said Gray.

‘Palace,’ said the guard. ‘In, Griffin.’

Gray stepped inside the chalk circle, trying to keep his head cool. ‘Has something happened with Conor?’

The guard was completely unreadable, with his gold mask and rigid body language. ‘Nothing that concerns you. King’s requested for you to have your stats scribed. Hush, now, I need to focus.’

Stats scribed?

‘Wait,’ said Gray. ‘Why would the king-’

CRACK.

-

CRACK.

They landed outside the palace gates. Gray stumbled behind the royal guard, trying to get his breath under control and his vision to clear from the fahrenning.

Scribing stats was expensive.

Real expensive.

Every citizen got their stat papers on birth, where everyone pretty much started on even footing. Except for mages and Others. They always had an advantage.

But, if you lost your stat papers and had to get them replaced?

It was a lot of money.

Wanted a stat score questioned? Or needed a stat paper changed, or replicated? It would set you back at least several ardents.

And, it made absolutely no sense for the king to want stat papers for Gray right now.

It was a waste of money, time, and skill. What if Gray was a sorcerer, what if the alchemic test showed him to be something that the king was going to execute anyway?

The stat papers only showed the current level any person was at.

And Gray’d not gone under any special exams or competitions or tournaments that you needed for your stat scores to go up. Just school exams. No special training, no tutors, no extra classes. And he’d done nothing with magic. His magic score would just be his base score, it wouldn’t be anything -

‘Keep up,’ said the royal guard.

The royal guard was striding through the halls, past the lavish furnishings and gold leaf on the walls. His broad shoulders clipped the corner as he whipped past it.

The path they were taking was familiar, and it was with slowly dawning horror that Gray recognised the route they were taking as the one that Killian and Gray had sprinted through to escape the king’s office a few weeks ago.

Just as Gray opened his mouth to ask who was going to be doing the scribing, they turned onto the hall with the king’s office.

There was some kind of cohort standing outside the king’s office - a man wearing a gold circlet and silk clothes speaking a fast foreign language with a scandalised courtier, and was that the prince of Foix? - when the royal guard tugged at Gray's collar.

‘Move along,’ he said. ‘The scribes are further up the hall.’

Gray nodded and picked up the pace. They squeezed past the Foixan cohort, and Gray ducked his head, lengthening his stride, conscious of his prison greys.

The jabbering of Foixan cohort was fading behind Gray when there was a huge, shuddering crash.

As one, Gray and the royal guard spun on the spot.

Sorena had crashed out of the king’s office doors.

Her face was dark as thunder, her eyes were freshly red, and her stride was hard and long. She shoved past the prince of Foix, past his cohort. Her platinum hair was not-so-neatly braided.

The entire Foxian cohort was frozen, watching.

And she was followed by the king.

’Sorena,’ he shouted, following her down the hall. ‘You will not defy me.’

‘Watch me.’ She shoved past the royal guard, past Gray, and disappeared around the corner.

The king came to a halt beside the royal guard, who'd swiftly folded into a neat bow. The king was full of strained rage. His angular face was stark white in his suppressed fury, his silvery hair braided away from his intense and cold eyes.

He stared after his daughter and then slowly swivelled his attention to the Foixan cohort. With a small nod, he acknowledged them.

The strained way the king was moving, it was almost as though he was embarrassed - furious, a clear madman - but, humiliated.

Gray had to take a moment to admire the serious size of Sorena’s cojones. Stupid cojones, but still serious cojones. Then, as Gray watched in slow horror, with zero power to stop it, the king turned and clapped his cold and furious gaze on the royal guard, and then down to Gray.

If Gray had the power to fahren, he would’ve been gone quicker than a snap of the fingers. He waited, his heart beating in his throat.

Waited for the king to snap.

To turn his terrifying rage, his lethal temper, onto Gray. Onto every person who’d just witnessed him being humiliated by his daughter.

Perhaps the king was aware of the watching Foixans. Perhaps he cared to make a good impression on the Foixan prince, who was standing some yards away with his mouth hanging open.

Because, with a slow and obvious effort, the king turned a strained smile on the Foixans.

‘You would not fight with your father so, I’m sure,’ said the king.

His voice carried, as he apparently intended it, to the Foixan prince.

The Foixan prince gave a curt bow of his head. ’I fight with mine quite badly sometimes, sire.’ He spoke neatly, in perfect Lismerian with the smallest hint of a sliding Foixan accent.

The king swept his cold gaze from the Foixan prince back to Gray.

It took a breath too long for Gray to collect himself, to remember he needed to bow and not make eye contact.

The king held himself still, outwardly completely composed, but the hum of his magic made Gray’s arm hair stand on end.

‘You been reading that book I gave you?’ said the king.

Gray stayed frozen in his bow. Was there a correct way to bow? Was he supposed to straighten now? Honestly, he just didn’t want to die today, he didn’t want his throat slashed, as Darcy’s had been, without any damn warning-

‘Yes, sire,’ muttered Gray. Then, because it couldn’t hurt, and the man was still so furious Gray could feel it in the air, and Gray wasn’t above being a kiss-ass if it saved his life, not while he was finally making headway on figuring out how to vanquish the thing that had murdered Alistair, and his principles and ego could go hang, honestly, ‘thank you, sire.’

The king glanced at the royal guard who was in a deep bow with his hand over his heart.

‘I want his stat papers as soon as they’re available.’

‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ said the guard.

And then the king was gone, his robes sweeping over the floor, and the Foixans following him into his office in reverent silence.

‘Come,’ said the royal guard to Gray, straightening up and heaving out a ribboned sigh. ‘Let’s get this over with.’