"Ronan, take this check and end your engagement with Seren. You should be grateful we're offering you anything at all." Damon Cross tossed a check onto the table, and it slid across the white cloth and stopped against Ronan's wineglass. The banquet hall went silent for a moment, and then the laughter began, then louder, rolling from table to table like a wave. Ronan sat at the far end of the long table in his wheelchair, shoulders hunched and eyes lowered. Three years of practice had made the act easy. Inside, the golden power in his chest hummed like a caged beast, and he pressed it down tight. "Look at him," a woman whispered from the next table. "He's still wearing that old coat. Didn't the Whitmores buy him a new one?" "Why would they?" her husband snorted. "You don't dress a stray dog for a party." Ronan heard every word. These were the same people who had cried at the victory parade, and now they laughed at him. He memorized each face, one by one. At the head of the table

"Ronan Vale? That name has been on the Abyssal kill list for three years." Nash Wilder stared at the wheelchair rolling through his office door as if he had seen a ghost crawl out of a grave. The broker's pen slipped from his fingers and rolled across the scarred wooden desk. Ronan sat in the doorway, wrapped in a plain gray cloak, "Tell me everything." It was past midnight. Ronan had slipped out of the Whitmore house while Bram kept watch, and he had crossed the old harbor district alone. The guards at the gate of the black market had laughed when they saw a cripple in a cloak, and not one had thought to stop him. "Master Vale," Nash croaked, glancing around nervously. "Forgive me, but how did you get down here by yourself? Those tunnels are..." "I'm persistent," Ronan said with a small, pitiful smile. "I had a good push." Nash gave a nervous laugh and bent to pick up his pen, taking longer than necessary. When he straightened, his face was a professional mask again. "My rates

"Don't make this difficult, Ronan. We were paid to deliver you alive, but nobody said you had to arrive in one piece." Four hunters stepped out of the shadows and blocked the mouth of the alley on the way back from the hospital. He had sent Bram home an hour ago with a lie about visiting a friend. He recognized the hunters immediately. The tall one with the scarred jaw had a crooked nose Ronan had broken three years ago. The wide man with iron gauntlets had been the third attacker, and the thin one with the hooked dagger had nearly taken his eye out. The fourth was a bald man with a snake tattoo curling up his neck. "Well, well," the bald man said, cracking his knuckles. "Look at the little hero, all alone." "P-please," Ronan whispered, shrinking down in his chair. "I don't have any money. Just let me go home." "Money?" The thin one snickered and twirled his dagger. "We're being paid more than you've ever seen. Young Master Cross wants you in a cage, cripple." "Why?" Ronan aske

"Take the cripple alive. His core is intact." Gideon Vale's voice crackled out of the tiny blue crystal in Ronan's palm. Ronan sat in the dark of the Whitmore guest wing with the listening stone pressed against his ear. "Alive?" the Cross envoy asked on the recording. "You are sure you want to hand over your own son?" "He stopped being my son the day he broke," Gideon said. "Your master wants the core, and I want the Vale name saved. We both get what we want. Name your price." Ronan's fingers curled around the crystal until it nearly cracked. Beside the bed, Old Bram sat on a stool, wringing his cap. "Young Master," he whispered, "you've gone pale. What did they say?" "Nothing, Bram." Ronan forced a weak smile. "Just old family talk." He lowered the stone into his lap and stared at the crumpled note on the blanket. *Do not eat anything Seren gives you. Forgive me, Ronan. I thought I was protecting you.* The same hand that wrote those words had sold him, only hours apart. "Whic

"Seize those weapons! Now!" Damon roared, and his voice cracked. "They're malfunctioning! Take them away from him!" Six temple guards rushed the altar with their hands out. The first one grabbed the crimson spear, and in the next instant he flew backward through the air. He hit a pillar with a sickening crack and slid to the floor, groaning. "Aaah! It burned me!" The second guard reached for the hammer and was thrown across the hall. The third and fourth tried together, and the weapons flashed like lightning and hurled them into the crowd. Guests screamed and scrambled away. The twelve weapons did not stop bowing. "Don't touch them!" the head priest shrieked. "They're angry! They are holy!" "Then why are they bowing to a cripple?" a man shouted from the back. "What is he?" "Quiet!" Damon spun around. His face was dark red, and his eyes burned with something close to panic. "He's nothing! A trick! He is a sick, poisoned man, and this is a trick!" He stormed toward the wheelchai