“Go,” Six says, backing away from the ledge. “Quick, before he gets here.”

“It’s too late,” I whisper, reaching out to catch his hand. I’d meant to pull him back down, but as soon as my skin touches his, I let go. “If I feel it, he will too.”

The first soldier appears through the tunnel opening and freezes, lifting his torch in surprise.

“The bodies,” I whisper.

Six shakes his head. “There’s nothing we can do about them now.”

“Byrn!” the soldier yells, drawing his sword. “The guards are dead! Sound the alarm!”

Shouts echo down the tunnel, and more soldiers, armed and armored, pour out into the canyon.

“Where is Tenant Tyrr?” asks the first soldier, kneeling beside one of the bodies.

“Search the perimeter,” shouts another.

Half a dozen soldiers rush to follow the order while the rest form a protective arc around the entrance of the tunnel. Another man jogs out of its darkness, one hand on the back of his neck as he searches his surroundings. “Wait,” he calls, moving his hand from his neck to his crossbow. “There’s a Wordweaver nearby.”

I pull back from the ledge, my heartbeat slamming into the rock beneath me.

“Where?” someone asks. Six reaches for his bow.

“You know I can’t tell you that,” Brayam snaps. His eyes stay on the trees, and the others wait in tense silence for him to find me. “Bring out the others,” he says at last, stepping aside to make room for the men still inside the tunnel. I peek out as they trail out with fearful glances and hunched shoulders, as though they expect to be attacked at any moment. They’re dressed in plain clothes, so they’re not trainees... new workers?

One of them turns his head, and my stomach squeezes as I watch his familiar square face search for the threat. Bronhold. Behind him is Kjerrin and Tennr the shepherd, Ambril the blacksmith’s son, a man I recognize from Norwikk...

But no Aze.

Six catches me staring and signs, “Danger?”

“Men from the village,” I whisper, watching them plod anxiously toward the arc of soldiers. “But I don’t understand. They’re not wearing their padded shirts... and look, they’re not armed. Why did Brayam send them out?”

“He suspects you’re the Wordweaver,” Six mutters. “He figures you won’t hurt your neighbors. He wants a shield.”

“Spread them out,” Brayam says, confirming Six’s guess. Soldiers push the villagers into a row before them, sharing nervous glances as they back away. “Come forward!” Brayam’s muted red voice grates against the quiet like rust on gleaming steel. “I know you’re out there. I can sense you, as you sense me. Give yourself up before someone gets hurt.”

“They haven’t guessed we’re above them,” Six says. “We have to give Orami time to get back to Bayal. We need a distraction.”

Brayam waits, but when no one comes forward, he lifts his crossbow. “I’ll wait until the count of three. If you don’t show yourself by then, I’ll start shooting.”

“He wouldn’t,” I breathe.

“One.”

Six curses. He pulls an arrow from his quiver, slapping it to the string and canting his bow sideways over the ledge.

“Two,” Brayam calls.

I start forward, but Six whispers an order to sit back down.

Brayam levels his crossbow on a Norwikk man. “Three.”

“Stop,” I shout, standing. Six shoots to his feet beside me, drawing his arrow to his cheek in the same instant. He looses it as Brayam turns, attention drawn by my voice, and has another drawn in seconds. The arrow thuds into Brayam’s shoulder, spinning him and knocking him to the ground. The soldiers nearest Brayam shout and point their crossbows at us, but Six is already aiming his arrow toward them.

There are too many. Time seems to slow as the soldiers turn their crossbows to Six, but he makes no move to avoid them. The soldiers pull their triggers as Six looses his single arrow, the cracks of the bowstrings stabbing my ears. I turn, too slowly, lunging into the path of the bolts, and time snaps back to speed with me.

A bolt slams against my pack as I tackle Six, pushing me sideways as we fall. It rolls me over his legs, and then there’s nothing underneath me.

I’m falling.

Six’s shout chases after me as I slide down the face of the cliff, but I barely hear it. I throw out my arms, scrambling for something to hold onto, my grip tearing away as soon as I find purchase.

Ieldran—please—my shoulder smashes into a rock, and I spill out into a breathless, backwards fall—

I slam to a stop. Branches catch at my clothes, holding me in place like protective claws while I lie still, sobbing for breath and trying to get my bearings as the world stops spinning. I’m sprawled across a clump of bushes, half-sunk into their thorny grasp near the bottom of the cliff.

The sound of footsteps drags my attention down to find a soldier rushing towards me. He lifts his sword, but the thorns snag in my sleeve when I try to find my own. I force my hand through the branches, tearing skin and cloth alike, but it’s too late. I won’t reach it in time.

He raises his sword, point aimed at my chest, and I cringe back into the bush.

A shout pulls my eyes upward. Six hurtles over me, throwing himself into the soldier and sending them both crashing to the ground. He rolls to his feet, sword up, his back to the tunnel. “Come on!” he shouts—to me, the soldier, or the other rangers, I can’t tell which. His eyes are wild, feet planted wide as he waits for an attack.

The soldier lunges, but Six blocks the attack easily. He turns the blade aside and twists back, punching the point of his sword through his opponent’s ribs. The man’s armor does little to defend him at that angle, and I flinch away from his gurgle before he collapses to his knees and topples over.

“Are you hurt?” Six pants, stepping around the body and reaching for me.

I shake my head as he pulls me from the thorns, my breath still ragged. Movement over his shoulder catches my eye, and I look to see more soldiers rushing for us, empty crossbows thrown down in favor of swords. Six follows my gaze and backs me against the cliff before turning to face them.

Thare crashes, bellowing, through the trees across the canyon. He cuts down a surprised soldier and continues on, his indigo shouts spiking through the air. The remaining rangers burst through the trees after him, swords drawn as they rush to flank Thare.

“Come on,” Six says. “We have to get to them. We’re too vulnerable here.” He drags me from the cliff, skirting across the entrance of the tunnel. The soldiers have turned to face the rangers, leaving Brayam on the ground before the tunnel. Ieldran, let him be dead—but no, he’s moving. Struggling. He rolls, letting me see the villager wrestling for control of Brayam’s sword.

Bronhold.

I freeze in dismay as Brayam tosses him off and surges to his knees, eyes on Six.

Bronhold tackles him from behind, leaving Six and me a clear path to the other rangers. Six’s arrow is buried in Brayam’s shoulder, but he doesn’t seem to notice it. He roars as Six runs by, rolling and grabbing both of Bronhold’s wrists. “Burn,” he snarls.

Bronhold screams. He jerks away, but Brayam holds tight, the blood-red glow of his Wordweaving glaring in the last of the shadows. Six is already past them, his attention on his friends, leaving Bronhold helpless to the attack.

My sword is in my hand. Shaking, I change course and sprint to Brayam, still burning his way through Bronhold’s wrists. He doesn’t see me coming, doesn’t turn as I approach and drop to one knee behind him.

“Let him go,” I say, pressing the edge of my blade to his throat. Brayam stiffens, his concentration breaking enough that the light of his Wordweaving fades. Gasping, Bronhold pulls free and falls back, his eyes glazed with pain.

My fingers tremble on the hilt of my sword. “Heal him.”

Brayam’s elbow flashes back and catches me in the cheek, and before I can react, he’s knocking my sword away. It spins out of my hand and clatters over the rocks at my feet, and he kicks it aside before I can scramble to pick it up.

I hold up my hands, fighting to keep my rising panic at bay. “You don’t have to do this,” I say breathlessly. “There’s an Ielic unit on the way to take the fort. You don’t have to fight anymore—you can be free.”

“Free?” Brayam laughs. Six’s arrow is still embedded in his shoulder, but he doesn’t seem to notice it. His gaze is fierce and wild as he steps over Bronhold’s body, flexing his hands like the weapons they are. “I was a soldier before I became a Wordweaver. No one forced me to fight.”

I stumble back and lift my own hands as he advances. “You’re outnumbered. When the Ielics arrive——”

“Let them come.” Brayam lunges forward, his hands glowing red. I flinch away from his attack, but he presses one hand against my forearm and shoots a punch of energy into my skin.

“Burn.”

The pain is instant. It stabs through me as his searing touch hisses through my sleeve—and then he pulls away, lifting his arms and falling into a wrestling stance. “Come on,” he says, swaying back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Show me what you can do.”

I clamp my left hand over my burned arm, but a quick glance shows it’s not as serious as I thought. The burn is superficial, thank Ieldran.

He’s toying with me.

“I’m a healer,” I say, easing into my own ready stance. I’m no stranger to wrestling—all the children in Vallegat used to wrestle, and I more than others because it was Aze’s favorite game. I was never very good at it, but I know how to defend myself.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Brayam weaves toward me, a feint that I am too enthusiastic in blocking. “Then you’ve wasted your gift,” he says, wrapping his fingers around my wrist. Another quick command, another burst of pain—another taunting withdrawal. “Why fool yourself? We were made to be weapons.”

I don’t answer. My arms sting, and a wave of anger crests inside me as Brayam smirks. “Look at you,” he says, shifting his feet. “Afraid. Weak. Why does the Phoenix choose to bless those who cannot use his gift?”

Fury and pain send a flush up my face. I clench my teeth, fighting to contain the energy boiling beneath my skin. This time, I watch his hips as he rocks from side to side, and when he strikes, I step back and knock his hand away.

A flash of interest crosses his face. “Well. Perhaps not as weak as you seem.”

“Wordweaving is a blessing,” I say, my voice hard and sharp. “It’s a way for the Phoenix to spread his protection to others.”

Brayam laughs. “It’s a judgement. A punishment for the one he blesses, and anyone around him.”

He rushes me, reaching out with his left hand to grapple me into a closer hold. I try to dodge, but he’s faster and I’m out of practice. This time, the burn rushes down the side of my neck before he breaks contact and spins away.

“Yield,” he says. “You can’t defeat me.”

I suck in a pained breath and risk a glance over his shoulder. Bronhold is still sprawled in the dirt behind him, his breathing harsh and rasping. Past him, a flurry of movement and the clashing of swords tells me the rangers are fighting the rest of the soldiers. I can’t see the villagers—they’ve apparently had the sense to get out of the way—but I recognize a clear blue shout that might belong to Kjerrin.

I have to keep stalling. Just long enough for Captain Bayal to arrive.

With a snarl, I rip off my scarf and bare the scars on my throat. “I may not be a soldier, but I know what it is to fight. I will not give in to you.”

“Burns?” Curiosity burnishes Brayam’s voice to a crimson-gold. “Then you’ve earned your gift. Why not learn to use it?”

“I use it to heal,” I snap. “You must have used it to help someone, too. When you made your sacrifice, when you were blessed—you must have tried to save someone.”

Brayam snorts. “Wordweaving is a curse, boy. One day, you will learn it as well. There will always be people you cannot save.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he presses forward again. My feet move—I draw back, ready to deflect his glowing hands—he plants one foot behind mine and grabs my shoulders. I scrabble for a grip, but he twists and pulls me down. My back hits the earth.

His hands close over my throat. “This is a mercy,” he growls, his face close to my ear. “If the Grand General got ahold of you, you’d never survive.”

He doesn’t burn me. His palms press into the sides of my neck, cutting off my blood flow. The buzzing, weightless feeling of impending unconsciousness sweeps through me. My vision blurs.

And beneath me, the mountainside is cool and solid, and the image of a thousand years of snow and wind and storms flickers through my fading vision. My fingers are wrapped uselessly around Brayam’s wrists—I force one hand to his chest.

“Blizzard.”

Ice coats my lips. The detail comes to me distantly, like the memory of a winter’s day in the heat of summer. My Wordweaving tears through me with all the force of fear and anger, roaring, blinding—I summon snow and sleet and gusting wind from the air around me and hurl it at Brayam.

His hands leave my neck. I drag in a ragged breath and to my side. When I meet no resistance, I cut off the rush of energy and prop myself on one elbow, panting.

Brayam lies crumpled in the mouth of the tunnel.

Still.

For a moment, I feel light—almost giddy, with the blood racing back through my veins and Brayam’s weight off my body. Then the exhaustion hits, and a wave of nausea shudders through me. I need to get up. Keep moving, keep the threatening darkness away.

I stagger to my feet, squeezing my eyes shut when the world swirls around me. I inhale, take a step forward—another. “Bronhold?”

He’s on his knees a few paces away, watching me with wide eyes. “He would have killed them,” he says, his voice a raw, bloody red. “To get to you, he would have killed them all.”

I stumble to my knees at his side. “He won’t now.”

“You’re with the Ielics.”

“The Ielics promised they could help,” I say, pushing down a surge of guilt. “They’re going to free all the trainees.”

“You came back?” He holds his arms out awkwardly, exposing the raw skin beneath his burned sleeves. Burns infect easily—he needs treatment soon.

My head pounds a warning against healing, so I dig into my satchel and pull out a clump of dried comfrey. I spare a slip of my dwindling energy to revive the leaves and crush them between my fingers.

“I’ll treat it properly later,” I promise.

“Why are you doing this?”

I stop, studying him for the first time since leaving home. There’s a new leanness in his face; a harder, brighter light in his pale eyes. A scabbed-over cut stands out against his cheek, probably earned during a training session, but he looks healthy. He looks like a different person.

And I feel like a different person.

“Bronhold,” I say softly. “Look at me.”

He blinks, taking in the red Ielic tunic, the tea-darkened hair hanging in my eyes, my dirty, sweat-streaked face. My scars. I’d been careful to wear my hood as often as possible in the fort, but now that he’s seeing me in the light for the first time, I can tell the exact moment he recognizes me. His eyes go wide and his mouth opens as if trying to say my name, but nothing comes out.

I give him a small smile. “Rip up the leaves to make a poultice. You should cover this as soon as possible.” I look up, searching for a villager to help, but they’re not standing off to the side anymore.

They’ve joined the attack.

As one, the villagers have swarmed the soldiers, wrestling away their weapons, swinging their fists and knocking down the men who were little more than their captors.

Pride warms the fear and guilt still burrowed in my chest. I turn to get started on the poultice myself, but something catches my eye in the tunnel. The gash of shadows under the opening, the dirty snow still clinging to the crevices in the stone, the wide, open entryway.

Empty.

Brayam is gone.

“The Ielic with the black hair,” I say, dropping the waterskin and bandages. “Tell him where I went.”

“The Ielic?” Bronhold echoes.

I’m halfway to my feet when another thought drags me back. I don’t have time to ask, but the words are out of my mouth before I can think better of them. “Where’s Aze?”

“Gone.” His voice is faint, whether from shock or pain, I can’t tell. The usual earthy brown is flat with exhaustion and disbelief. “Tenant Gryfalkr sent him away.”

Then Chass did find a way to help him. Relief floods through me, washing away the worry and leaving hard determination beneath. “Treat your wounds,” I repeat. “Help is coming.”

Before Bronhold can say anything else, I dash into the tunnel after Brayam. Torches light the familiar path, illumining the way I’d hoped never to walk again. I try to find the balance between being quick and being cautious, but every pounding heartbeat reminds me that Brayam is too far ahead, carrying the news of our attack with him.

The tight walls open up into the Phoenix Nest, and I pause to examine the cavern. The gaping silence is even more oppressive than it was before. I want to hurry through the space, back into the enclosure of the tunnel where there are no hulking shadows to hide in. But I make myself walk, my breath rasping in my ears, my heart slamming against my chest.

A hand touches my shoulder, seizing my jacket and jerking me backwards. I drop to the ground with a strangled cry. How did he get behind me? There was nowhere he could have hidden, nowhere to—

“You have brought shame on your people,” Tenant Tyrr hisses, twisting a knife at my throat. He pins me down, face inches from mine, his sour breath clouding in the cold.

“How—?” I gasp, pulling away from the knife.

“My men are loyal to me,” Tyrr says, his face contorted in triumph. “They found and released me just in time to see your escape. I left them to take care of your Ielic friends, but I swore I would handle you myself.”

His blade trails downward, catching on the cord hidden under my shirt. “Well, well, well… what’s this?”

I catch my breath as he lifts the ring. His eyes gleam as he rips it from my neck, snapping the string and holding it before my face. “I knew it. Captain Oristel said it wasn’t possible, that the timeline didn’t add up, but I knew it was you.”

I try to squirm away, but his free hand shoves me back down. “You thought you were so clever,” he says. “Hiding in the mountains, thinking we’d never be able to search all those forgotten little villages. Seeking refuge from your old allies.”

I don’t understand. I open my mouth to say so, but the knife bites into my skin when I try.

“I know someone who will be happy to know you’ve been found,” Tyrr purrs, slicing a shallow cut across my cheek. I cry out, but he stuffs his hand down over my mouth. “None of that,” he says. “I’m not letting you get away again. After all this time, I am the one who has found the sixth heir.”

I stiffen. The sixth heir, who fled toward the mountains and has been missing for a year. An heir who would have been hiding his identity with a nickname. An heir whose family was killed, who suffered from nightmares, who fights with more skill than a year in the army could have given him.

“Get up,” Tyrr says, grabbing my jacket to haul me to my feet. Pain cuts through the dizziness caused by standing, but he holds me upright and drags me forward with the knife once again pressed to my throat. I force my racing thoughts to settle, searching for a way out. I don’t have the strength to Wordweave, but Tyrr wants me alive.

So even the knife at my throat is not as dangerous as it seems.

I stomp down hard on Tyrr’s foot. He yowls in pain and I dive away, but he snatches a handful of my jacket and yanks me back. I scrabble for my sword, but it’s not there—Brayam had knocked it away, and I was too distracted to pick it back up.

“I’ll kill you for that,” he hisses. “As soon as Ambritten is done with you, it’ll be my sword in your gut, and my face will be the last one you see.”

“You have that backwards.”

The tip of a blade drives through Tyrr’s chest, and I stumble back with a strangled scream. He gapes down at it, then at me, his mouth working like he’s trying to speak. The sword withdraws, and Tyrr falls at my feet.

Six stands where Tyrr had been seconds ago, holding his bloody sword and searching my face. His gaze stops at the oozing cut on my cheek. “Are you hurt? Your arms—”

“You’re the prince,” I whisper.

Six goes still. “What?”

“All this time... all the searching. It was you.”

Six’s gaze falls to Tyrr, to the ring in his hand. I bend to pick it up and thrust it out at him. “This is yours, isn’t it? You recognized it that day you found me. You told me to keep it so no one would find it on you.”

“No, I—”

“Tyrr thought I was you.” Hysteria creeps into my voice, and I have to take several quick, shallow breaths before I can go on. “That’s why he called me a traitor. He was going to take me back to Ambritten.”

“I wouldn’t have let that happen.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“What was I supposed to say?” His words, glaring scarlet, ricochet off the cavern walls and echo down the tunnel. “My family was dead. Their murderers were hunting me. What choice did I have?”

“You could have…” I trail off. What else could he have done? As long as Ambritten controls Awnia, Six is safer in Ieli. But to have kept a secret this big for this long... I only managed a little more than a month. Six has been with the Border Patrol for a year. “Nobody else knows?”

“Nobody.” He glances at the ring in my hand, then back down the tunnel. “Look, I’ll explain everything later, but we don’t have time now. Go back to the others, I’ll—”

“I’m not leaving.”

Yellow torchlight flickers over his face, washing out the color in his skin. “It’s too dangerous,” he says in a strained voice.

“Then you can go back to the others.” I start forward, but he reaches out and catches my hand. His fingers tighten around mine, the dark blue of his eyes flashing violet in the shadows. He’s so close that I can see dried blood on his split lip… so close that when he opens his mouth, there doesn’t seem to be any space between us. His hand releases mine and lifts, brushing up my arm and sending shivers down my spine.

“Brayam is getting away,” I breathe, tearing my gaze from his lips.

Six clears his throat, dropping his hands to his side and stepping back. “Right. Then… here. I found this outside the tunnel.” He wipes the sword clean on Tyrr’s cloak and holds it out to me, flashing a lopsided smile. “Try not to lose it again.”

I take it, sliding it into the sheath on my hip and dropping the ring into my pocket. Six leads the way through the cavern, and I follow in a daze. My heart still pounds, harder now than when I’d had a knife to my throat. I have to focus. Gather up what’s left of my energy, make a plan. But it’s hard to concentrate with Six’s footsteps echoing in my ears and the warmth of his touch still burning on my skin.

I need a distraction. “You weren’t angry when you found out I’d been lying to you,” I say, keeping my voice low. “That’s because you were lying, too?”

He gives me a sheepish shrug. “It seemed hypocritical to be upset.”

“Lucky for me.”

“It’s a relief,” Six says quietly. “For someone to know the truth. Even if…”

Even if I’ll be leaving. My desire for conversation slips away.

Six overtakes me and ranges ahead to search out the shadows of the tunnel away from my puffing breath and heavy steps. My vision swims with exhaustion, but I try to focus on being observant. Each rock could be Brayam, each pool of darkness a trap. I keep my eyes on the ground, trying to pry hints of Brayam’s passage from the dust.

“Six!”

I startle, turning to see Thare, Redge, and Iorin jogging through the tunnel toward us. Six stops to let them catch up, reaching out to grasp each of their forearms in greeting. “The guards?” he asks.

“Taken care of,” Thare answers.

“The villagers are under the care of your friend,” Iorin says to me.

“Bronhold?”

“Yes.” Iorin looks up the tunnel, his hand still gripping Six’s. “What’s the plan?”

“Stop Brayam before he reaches the fort.”

“Not much of a plan,” Thare says, pushing past us. “No time to waste catching up here.”

We hurry after him, but in another few moments the way brightens with natural light. Six lets out a dismayed breath, and the other rangers slow and look to him for new orders. We’re too late.

Brayam has already reached the fort.