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K ANTHE HURRIED WITH his small group down the torchlit tunnel. The cavernous passageway, as wide as it was tall, stretched a furlong in length, boring through the breadth of the Stormwall, the towering rampart that encircled the city proper.

Hundreds of citizens and scores of carts, drawn by oxen or mules, bustled within the tunnel, impeding their group’s progress. The scent of dung, sweat, and piss ripened the air, trapped by the bulk of stone overhead.

Kanthe glanced upward with a wince—not at the weight pressing down upon him, but at what lay hidden up there. Long ago, the mountainous Stormwall had been burrowed through with armories and barracks, its outer face peppered with arrowslits. Untold numbers of armies had shattered against its ramparts.

And now we sneak through it like rats along a sewer.

Frell nudged Kanthe with an elbow. “Keep your face down.”

Acknowledging this warning, Kanthe dropped his gaze and tugged his Delftan cap lower over his brow. He did not need someone recognizing him through his disguise.

“Almost out of here,” Rami whispered, pointing toward the glow of daylight ahead.

This observation earned an exasperated scowl from Frell. The alchymist wagged a finger toward the medallion on Rami’s chest, at the sewn lips of a Gjoan scribe, reminding the Klashean that he was supposed to be mute.

Rami’s shoulders rose sheepishly.

Ahead of them, Tykhan led the group, striding alongside Llyra. The guildmaster rushed their group toward the tunnel’s exit. Cassta kept to Tykhan’s other side, maintaining her role as bodyguard.

Behind them, Jester and Mead followed. The two thieves muttered to each other, mostly complaints mixed with curses. Though barks of laughter burst out, too. The pair seemed unruffled by this risky endeavor.

“Looks like someone just paid their tunnel toll,” Mead groused.

Kanthe looked over his shoulder. A coin purse rested in Mead’s palm. Then with a flick of a wrist, the pilfered satchel vanished as if it were never there. Though Kanthe appreciated the thief’s deft-fingered skill, their group did not need to draw the attention of a city’s guardsman.

Jester noted Kanthe’s attention and waved him onward. “Mind your own toes.”

As if reinforcing this, the ground shook underfoot—first a tremble, then a hard shake. Shouts and cries echoed off the walls. The quake worsened into bucking jolts. A pair of oxen bawled in panic and trampled toward the exit, dragging a cart with them. Overhead, bricks cracked with thunderous claps. Dust billowed down.

“Follow the beasts,” Tykhan warned, and hurried in the wake of the oxen.

Their group rushed toward the tunnel’s end.

Stones fell and clattered around them.

Even with the path cleared by the battering cart, the shuddering and shaking underfoot turned their flight into a drunken rout. Then a massive quake threw Kanthe into the air. The others fared no better. Only Cassta and Tykhan kept their feet.

“Hurry,” Tykhan bellowed as he scooped Llyra up.

The guildmaster shook off his help and waved them forward. “Keep going. Stay close.”

With the ground still tremoring, they rushed toward the exit. A storm had blown in while they were crossing through the Stormwall. Rain pelted them as they made their way out.

Once in the open, Kanthe defied Frell’s earlier admonishment and raised his face to the downpour, letting the cold rain temper his feverish skin. His feet slowed, and his heart lowered from his throat.

Then a blow struck him from behind. Hands grabbed him and lifted him to his toes.

“Don’t stop, you fool!” Jester hissed in his ear.

Mead clutched Kanthe’s other side as the thieves rushed him forward.

The reason for their alarm exploded with a deafening boom. A massive slab of the Stormwall’s facade broke free and cleaved like an ax toward the tunnel mouth.

Kanthe found his feet and fled with the thieves. The others pounded with the rush of the crowd, a chaotic stream of panicked citizens and animals. When the wedge of ancient stone struck, it shattered like a bomb. Rocks and boulders flew and smashed all around them. A wagon got crushed into splinters. People screamed. Shards of granite knocked others down.

Dust choked through the rain, chasing them, plastering clothes and skin.

Kanthe coughed and spat until the air finally cleared. He stumbled onward, letting the rain wash over him.

Llyra pointed to the right, to a side street. “This way!”

They shambled in a daze after her.

Kanthe glanced back to the Stormwall. Through the pall, the tunnel mouth had vanished, obliterated by debris. He gaped at the sight. For millennia, the rampart had survived countless assaults and withstood them all. And while it still stood, it had taken great damage.

In all his years, he had never experienced a quake of such ferocity in Azantiia. As he turned around, he spotted Frell staring up at the likely reason. Overhead, the moon glowed through a break in the rain clouds.

As Kanthe followed his gaze, he strained to judge if that silvery face had grown any larger, but the clouds closed again, smothering the brightness.

“Time’s bleeding out,” Tykhan warned. “With every passing day, the moon’s forces tug more savagely at this world.”

“That’s not the only urgency,” Llyra reminded them, and got them moving at a faster clip. “I’ve secured a house. But we’ll only stop long enough to grab what we need.”

W ITH ALARM BELLS still ringing across the beleaguered city, Kanthe headed with the others across a section of the city called the Midlins.

Most of Azantiia’s wealth flowed through this area, spreading outward from the fly-bit butcheries near the Stormwall, through hostelries, dressmakers, and cobblers, to the silversmiths, jewelers, and bankers that hugged the edges of Highmount.

As they climbed higher into the city, it grew clear that these heights had escaped the worst of the quakes. Little looked damaged. Larger homes appeared on either side, adorned with flowering window boxes. Many villas kept tiny, perfumed gardens hidden behind walls or closed off by spiked gates. Even the rain seemed to fall more gently across the Midlins, dappling the leaves and petals, tapping against the marble facades. At these heights, the air—salted from a continuous blow off the bay—washed away the reek and filth of the Nethers.

Still, Kanthe recognized changes that had nothing to do with the quake. Several villas had their windows boarded over. One had been put to the torch, leaving a charred hulk. Smaller details revealed themselves, too: weeds strangling window boxes, gardens overgrown and unkempt.

Frell noted all of this, too. “It seems your brother’s taxes are taking their toll.”

Kanthe motioned to the burned-out home behind them. “Someone must’ve protested a bit too loudly.”

The mood of the Midlins had certainly changed. The few people they passed kept their heads bowed, as if fearful of catching the wrong eye.

Ahead, a spate of laughter drew Kanthe’s attention. The joy was like sunlight amidst all this gloom. An older woman, perhaps a governess from her simple garb, led a pair of handsomely dressed boys in hand. Unperturbed by the quake, or maybe excited by it, the youngsters chattered brightly and splashed through puddles.

Kanthe smiled at their antics, remembering a time when he and Mikaen had been just as joyful in each other’s company. He pictured their feigned jousts, their endless games, their raucous flights through Highmount, even their daring escapades to steal honey pies from the kitchen.

Kanthe stared up toward the towering walls of Highmount.

How have we come to these straits?

One of the passing children trampled past their group, collided into Kanthe, then bounced away without a care or apology.

The governess drew her charge closer. “Sorry, sir.”

“No harm done,” Kanthe assured her, finding his smile again.

The woman nodded gratefully, but as she turned away, she looked sharply back with a wrinkled brow. Caught staring, she just as quickly swung around and hurried the boys at a faster clip.

Frell cursed at this and reached to Kanthe’s chin. As he lowered his hand, he showed the smear of paint on his fingers. “The rain. It’s starting to wear away your disguise.”

Kanthe touched his face, then glanced toward the retreating trio. Had there been a glint of recognition in the governess’s eyes?

Frell must have feared the same. “We must get off these streets.”

Luckily, their destination lay only a few turns away.

Llyra led them to a dressmaker’s shop, evident from the carved thimble on the shingle hanging above its door. No lights shone from the windows at the lower level, but up higher, lamps glowed through wispy curtains.

Llyra knocked a rhythm on the door that had to be a code. A moment later, the way opened. A pair of shadowy figures blocked the threshold. Kanthe noted the reflected flash off a sword.

Llyra waved their group inside. “Let’s get you all ready.”

Kanthe hesitated as the others entered. He stared back the way they had come, still worried about the governess, whether she had recognized the prince behind the paint.

Tykhan gathered Kanthe up and pushed him inside. His next words only served to stoke Kanthe’s unease.

“Now comes the treacherous part of our journey.”