Gray knew something was wrong a split second before it happened.

He’d been sitting opposite Killian in the carriage on the plush velvet seat, headed back towards the mage guild, the streets passing by in a hazy-lantern glow, stack of books held steady between his feet, when he felt the ripple in the air.

The ripple was cold.

An icy hand brushing over skin, an invisible and lightning-fast undercurrent.

And identical to the feeling from the charred ruins he’d passed on the way to the prison only a short time ago. Only fresher. Bigger.

Gray opened his mouth, alarm making his voice strong, the hairs on the back of his neck on end, and got out the words, ‘stop the-’

The world detonated.

Gray was thrown inside the carriage as it teetered and then tipped over.

He tumbled head over heels. The carriage skidded on its side. It continued to explode apart, there was fire in the air. Splinters rained down. Somewhere above him, Killian was moving. His hands grabbed the doorframe, his boots shoved against the wreckage. His voice cut through the roar.

‘Stay, kid. Stay where I can see you.’

Gray coughed, choking on heat. The books - his books - were ash and fluttering scraps. His palms skidded against something wet.

The street was raining debris. The carriage was wrecked, obliterated to charred ribs.

Gray clutched onto shredded velvet. Damp sunk through his clothes. The fire was so strong it was blinding. All Gray could make out was a single silhouetted dark figure with a wand, and Killian’s silhouette stalking towards them.

There were more explosions. The ground lurched. Gray forced himself to move, belly-crawling out from the debris, his body sluggish with shock.

And stopped.

Someone stood in front of him.

Gray hadn’t heard anyone approach. Hadn’t seen them. One second, empty space. The next, boots planted on the cobblestone, blocking his path.

This was no dark silhouetted figure with a wand.

Gray’s skin broke out into goosebumps.

Their boots were huge. Close enough for Gray to see hyper detailed. Frayed laces. Scuff marks on the toes. Ash drifted onto them.

Gray looked up, up, up, up heavy-duty canvas pants, up several layered belts and harnesses for axes, daggers, potions. A wand strapped to a wrist holster. Gray’s gaze climbed up. Up a sweat-damp, unkempt, northern-style shirt. Blue rune tattoos on the neck.

Gray’s gaze landed onto Longwark’s face.

Longwark’s hair was wilder than Gray had ever seen it. His glasses were cracked.

Branbright’s crow was on his shoulder, puffed up from fright.

Longwark’s mouth moved, but Gray heard nothing except for a high-pitched ringing in his skull. The fire warped everything, air and light and sound. The sensation of magic in the air was rough, it hit Gray like a current of static, crawling under his skin and pulsing in his bones.

Then, Longwark’s hand fisted the front of Gray’s dragon-scale vest, hauling him up like a sack of grain.

He dragged Gray away from the wreckage. Away from the explosions. Away from the sorcerer now battling Killian in a brutally fast and vicious fight - magic was flying, white hot, but Killian was faster, he was dodging, he had the sorcerer, his hands were on the sorcerer’s neck - until Longwark jerked Gray around the street corner.

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Gray’s back smacked against a brick wall.

They were in a wide lane.

Metal shop across from him. A swinging shingle for a herb specialist above him. Smoke curled in from the exploded street, it illuminated the surrounds in flickering orange light.

Longwark was fumbling with chalk from his belt, he was drawing a circle on the cobblestones with startling speed.

The brick was rough against Gray’s back. His heart was in his mouth.

Longwark said something again, but Gray couldn’t hear, there was still roaring ringing in his ears.

But, he did hear the-

CRACK

-

CRACK.

Gray landed hard, his palms scraping on stony ground, and the scent damp grass and leaf litter mixing with the lingering scent of smoke and charred ruins that had come through with Gray and Longwark.

Shaking his head to clear his vision and stumbling to his feet, Gray saw he was in the mouth of some sort of cave in the side of a mountain, overlooking the nightscape of Dierne in the distance.

The dark silhouette of trees and brush lined the mouth of the cave.

Gray’s clothes, hair, skin, stunk of smoke. He stared down at his trembling hands, which were blackened and dirty and covered in splinters.

Behind him, Longwark had already righted himself, lit several lamps with his wand, and was now fussing through a desk drawer. There was a full house set up inside the cave, complete with a tattered armchair with the stuffing coming out of the side, and a dining table with mismatched chairs.

It looked like Longwark had settled in this cave for some time.

There were the remains of a solitary dinner on the dining table - meat pie and mashed potatoes turned cold, wild strawberries, ale in a tankard - and laundry hung over a line strung from two jutting bits of rock.

Longwark pulled an orb from the drawer and strode over to Gray, holding the orb over his head. He seemed to be waiting for something from the orb, because after a minute, he pocketed it, and pulled out his wand.

Longwark did something to Gray with his wand, and Gray could hear again.

‘You have trackers?’ Longwark asked in northern.

Gray stared at him.

At all seven-foot-seven angry and dishevelled sorcerer.

It had been a while since Gray’d used northern, and that, along with his mind trying to make sense of what had just happened, was causing a stall in Gray’s thinking.

‘Boy, you have trackers? The army or the guild or palace gave you trackers?’

‘No,’ replied Gray in northern, numbly. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Negligent of them.’

Longwark whispered to his crow, and the crow took off, flying into the dark and stormy night sky. He unhooked his various harnesses holding his axes and potions, placing them on the desk.

‘Killian’s going to be angry,’ said Gray. So angry. ’The king’s going to be very angry.’

‘Yeah,’ said Longwark. He dusted ash off his sleeves, his thick eyebrows drawn into a frown. His blue run tattoos over his eyebrow shifted as his frown grew deeper. ‘Probably. He has a lethal temper. He'll need a decent amount of time to cool off.’

Was Longwark scared of the king?

‘Very, very angry,’ said Gray.

There must’ve been something in Gray’s expression that Longwark didn’t like because he sharply adjusted his wand in his holster. ‘I just saved your sorry skin,’ said Longwark. ‘The proper response would be gratitude. Or grovelling.’

‘Saved?’

Gray waited for Longwark to explain what had happened, and what they were doing there.

But Longwark just sank down into the tattered armchair. He reached for a broken puzzle ball that had been sitting on the cave ground.

Gray stared at him.

What just happened? Gray wanted to say.

He couldn’t get the words out.

He could barely breathe.

His fists trembled.

His mind was a boiling turmoil of what had just happened, of Killian and the sorcerer fighting in the street.

He glanced behind him at the opening of the cave, at the twinkling lights of Dierne.

‘There’s a storm coming tonight,’ said Longwark, his expression shuttered. ‘By all means, leave, and get caught in gale force winds, lightning, and rain so heavy it’ll sting your skin. There might even be hail.’

Gray eyed the sky.

Clouds were coming.

The air was changing.

And it felt cold.

Burning.

‘What are we doing here?’ said Gray. He kept his voice level. Barely.

‘Hiding,’ said Longwark. ‘Waiting.’

‘For what?’

Longwark grunted, twisting the puzzle ball between his fingers.

Gray waited for a reply.

And waited.

‘Killian,’ said Gray, ‘the king, they’ll think I was in on this. They’ll think we planned this together. To escape. They think I helped you with the jar-‘

’Slate is a halfwit,’ said Longwark. ‘And they don’t think that any more.’

‘What?’ said Gray.

‘I told the king,’ said Longwark, ‘the reason your face was on that Othoan wanted poster was because I used an illusion of you, to distract the Othoan guards while I entered their vaults.’

There was a callousness to Longwark’s words. A dismissiveness.

Like this was a passing fact.

Unimportant.

Gray’s joints were locked. His knees were fused. His jaw wouldn’t work.

‘You need to be more careful about who has access to your hair,’ said Longwark. ‘It’s easiest to create a full functioning illusion from mage and Other hair. A perfect little phantom, wearing your face. I wonder how many of you are walking this world already?’