The stink of tannery smoke clung to me long after we left the district. It burned in my lungs, coated my tongue, mixed with the copper tang of blood that hadn’t come out from under my nails. No matter how deep into the alleys we went, I couldn’t shake it.Corin led the way, silent, his coat drawn tight. His knife-hand never strayed far from his side.I touched the cut on my cheek. The skin throbbed under my fingers, sharp every time I breathed too hard. It wasn’t deep, but it felt like everyone in Drakemire could see it. Like it screamed Guild blood louder than any cloak.We ducked under a crooked arch into a narrow passageway, the walls sweating moisture. The cobbles here were broken, the puddles green with slime. Above, washing lines sagged with rags heavy with rainwater.Corin finally stopped in the shadow of a crumbling stairwell. He leaned back against the wall, eyes sharp. “We can’t stay in the market. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Word’ll spread.”I forced a smirk, though my stoma

The stink of the sewers clung to us all the way back. Even when we climbed into cleaner air, the rot seemed worked into my skin, into my lungs.Corin didn’t say a word as we walked. He kept ahead, hood low, shoulders stiff. I knew the silence wasn’t safety, it was a blade turned edge-in, waiting.We reached the crooked townhouse on the riverbend, Fennric’s den. A light burned in the shuttered window, sickly yellow, the kind that never meant comfort.Corin pushed the door first, knife in hand.Fennric was where we’d left him, hunched over his table, piles of parchment around him like driftwood, ink splattered across his hands. Only now the table wasn’t scattered nonsense. It was covered in one great sheet, patched from scraps, stitched together with wax and thread.A map.Lines crisscrossed like veins, marked with runes I didn’t know. Circles, Xs, little notes in a spidery hand. Some places were burned through, as if fire had tried to erase them.Fennric didn’t look up. His voice was a

The shard pulsed, crimson deepening as my hand rose. I tried to stop it, truly, I did, but my body was no longer mine. My fingers stretched, trembling, reaching.Corin’s shout tore across the chamber. “Malrik, don’t!”But it was too late.My palm struck the shard.The world exploded.Heat slammed through me, fire that wasn’t fire, light that was blood. My chest seized as though a forge had been lit inside my ribs. My scream rattled the skull-walls until dust rained like ash.Corin and Fennric were hurled backward, crashing into bone and stone. Fennric’s lamp shattered, plunging the vault into crimson darkness, the shard’s glow was the only light.Visions ripped through me, not memories, not dreams, but centuries of slaughter. Cities burning, towers of glass shattering, rivers running red. Faces twisted in agony, their eyes glowing the same crimson that now poured into my veins.I am hunger. I am fire. I am yours.I staggered, clutching the shard, though it felt weightless now, as thou

This The stink of ash clung to my skin. No matter how many alleys I ducked into, no matter how many buckets of gutter-water I splashed across my hands, I could still feel the heat of that soldier’s scream echoing in my palm.Drakemire was not silent.Voices followed me in the dark, carried on the rising smoke.“They say he burned a man to dust.”“His hand glowed like molten iron.”“The rat-king of the alleys has a devil’s brand.”Every whisper was a knife turned my way. People shut doors as I passed. A drunk stumbled into the street and, seeing my face, shrieked as though I carried plague. He ran, tripping, leaving me staring at my reflection in a black puddle, veins faintly red, eyes rimmed with fire.The shard pulsed inside me, a heartbeat too strong for my chest. They fear you because you are more. They are meat, you are flame. Burn them. Claim them.I pressed my hand hard against the wall, forcing a ragged breath. The stone hissed under my touch, a scorch mark spreading in the sha

The tunnels still smelled like smoke.It clung to everything, the stones, the water, my skin. When I breathed, it tasted like iron and memory.Fennric had found us a corner beneath what used to be the glass market, a hollow of fallen masonry and tangled pipes. The walls sweated with condensation, black with soot. The only light came from the faint ember-glow in my hands, which I kept low and covered. Even that small warmth made him flinch sometimes.We hadn’t spoken in hours.Above us, the city moaned, wood creaking, distant bells tolling for the dead. Somewhere, a voice shouted a prayer. Others answered it. I caught fragments through the cracks in the stone.“Saint of Ash, take our fear.”“Saint of Ash, burn our enemies.”The first time I heard it, I thought I was imagining things.The second time, Fennric smiled.“Listen to them,” he murmured. “They’ve already begun.”“Begun what?” I asked.He leaned forward, his thin face lit from below. “To believe.”I stared at him. “They’re terr