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Me without magic.

The Order in shambles.

Memento sumptus. If it’s all lost, then what was any of the sacrifice ever for? My fingers find the jagged scar on my chest as I walk toward a concrete box of a house up ahead. It’s nestled in a field beside a natural spring and looks just like its description in the report. The smooth slate walls, without windows or doors, blend in with the cloudy sky. An overgrown garden eclipses most of the house from view. Blink when passing and you could miss it. Francis Clemon Hughes III, the oldest living Dragun, lives inside. And he’s the best at sun tracking the brotherhood has ever known. Better than my brother, and that’s high praise. Sun tracking was the only thing Yagrin ever did right.

“Are you sure someone lives in there?” Yani asks.

“He’s a ’Roser,” Charlie says. “This is some trick.”

I listen with all my senses. “He’s in there.” If this guy knows anything, he’s going to help us.

“When did he retire? And why?” Most Draguns serve until death.

I check the file again. “It doesn’t say. Check the surrounding area for evidence of anyone else here,” I tell them.

“We’re literally in the middle of nowhere,” Yani says, feeling for her blade. “You were always so cautious.” Halfway around the world. Two hundred miles from the closest village and a half day’s walk from the nearest road.

“We follow protocol. I’ll look for a way inside.” Circling the perimeter, I find every side of the building is covered in sprawling vines and wild plants. There is no break in the foliage or indication that Francis has left this cube at all.

Charlie rejoins me. “Nothing.”

“Same.” Yani unclips the fire dagger at her waist and slices at the tangled weeds that crawl up the sides of the residence. We’re going to have to get more aggressive.

“Form up. We attack on my say.” I signal for the ready, on my count. And summon the chilled shadows. Cold rushes at me and I grab hold of it, a fistful of toushana. We unleash the destructive magic on the structure all at once, darkness slamming into its hard walls.

Nothing happens.

“Again!”

We pull magic to our bodies, harder, and the world darkens around us. We thrust a cannon of thrashing darkness to assault the block of cement. Shadows slam into the slate surface and vanish. Few things can withstand toushana’s deadly touch. We try again. And again, until my vision blurs and iciness creeps from the tips of my fingers into the bones in my hand. But nothing changes.

“Enough.” When I release the toushana and push it far away, it takes me several blinks before my head feels right again. I walk the perimeter again, surveying for any damage I might have missed. There is no time for delays; every second we’re behind is another second Quell gets ahead.

“Persons and purpose?” A voice from nowhere unsettles the birds in the trees. Charlie and Yani meet eyes. She falls back to figure out where the Audior magic is coming from. “Name your persons, state your purpose.”

“I am Jordan Wexton, Dragunheart of the Prestigious Order of Highest Mysteries. We are here on official business and mean you no harm. I summon you out of your house by order of the Dragunhead. Refuse to comply and you will be charged.”

Silence.

Yani elbows me, then clears her throat and raises her voice. “Sir, pardon my companion. He is new on the job and a bit too eager.”

I glare at her.

“What he means to say is, we’ve come to visit from Headquarters,” she says in a honeyed tone. “We have a few questions for you about the Sphere.” She finishes with a gentle inflection and a kindness in her voice that is the furthest thing from genuine. It’s sickening to be reminded of how I believed the best about her, when we were younger and she had fooled me. And how I didn’t learn my lesson with Quell.

A single wall of the house shifts. Tiny beads of condensation form on its solid surface until the cement barrier on one side of the house vanishes, melting into swelling droplets before morphing into a hazy mist. A withered hand cuts through it.

“Inside, quickly,” he says, stretching his veiny fingers.

His heart beats calmly, and through the haze, his expression gleams with earnestness. I take his hand and he pulls me through a wall oscillating between states of matter. I shiver at the feeling of slimy tentacles slithering all over me. Yani enters next, and after a moment, Charlie dashes through, tucking his phone away. Once we’re all inside, the wall hardens.

“Francis.” He offers his hand again, this time to shake. But I’m stilled, taking all of him in. A bone mask, tinged yellow and eroding at its edges, seeps back into his skin. He waits, hunched, his back bowed with age, but his stare sharply lucid. His gaze moves to my pendant.

“Jordan.”

Yani whispers, “What is he, like, five hundred?”

“He’s probably one of those immortality-obsessed ’Roser weirdos,” Charlie whispers back, loud enough for me to hear.