Gathar stumbled to a stop within the doors of the citadel’s central chamber. He blinked at Lysabel sitting on a bench in the center of the room, a scarf wrapped about her face.

Sahri stopped on the palace steps and scowled up at the walls which soft sand in dawn’s light. She’d spent a blissful month absent and didn’t relish the desperate summons which had drawn her back.

Ropes burned across my arms as I twisted on the table. The twice blasted sorceress stood beside her bowl. The water reflected light onto her face.

“I always had the worst luck. Tragically, it followed me even after I left this world.”

As a child he’d been told to be wary of the rails. Altes had heard their words. He even tried to listen. Yet he always returned, fingers curling about cold metal as he peered into the clouds below.

A long sigh sounded behind Red. One which demanded attention. Turning, she tightened her grip on her blade. Whynna sat in the open windowsill.

Everything had gone sideways. The fleet lay at the bottom of the harbor. Their retreat over the mountain passes had been sealed by the Ethrael. His men had been picked off by the Queen’s Bulwarks. Only Mirothan remained.

Boots sounded over stone, sliding and echoing down the narrow canyon. “Are we quite there yet?” The voice, wobbly in its higher pitch, echoed.

To most Cadilican was insignificant. A speak tucked within the continent’s interior. Bordered by rivers, mountains, and the great nations: Kiremond and Dendarwen. To me Cadilican was everything.

The road wound into an unforgiving, dark night. The lantern swinging from a pole on Gwath’s pack illuminated a few scant lengths of dirt. Most didn’t even have that much.