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E SME CLUTCHED THE deck rail of the massive wyndship. She tried not to stare below as the Necropolises of Seekh retreated under her. She had never imagined she would fly aboard such a vessel—nor had she ever wanted to.

She preferred the sand under her feet.

Like all Chanaryn.

Behind her, men and women hurried about, shouting to each other, as the Fyredragon set off from the mooring field. She sought to keep clear of the trampling crew. Rather than looking down, she craned up at the massive balloon overhead. She struggled to understand how they could be rising so effortlessly. She distrusted such alchymies.

Especially with my life.

Another must have read her skepticism.

Jace stared up along with her. “Back in Spindryft, we modified the Fyredragon ’s balloon. Sealing it up and filling it with lift-gasses. Before that, to escape the Frozen Wastes, Krysh and I had devised a method of using heated air to raise the ship.”

Esme looked at him askance, letting her skepticism show. While packing her few belongings, she had heard a sketch of this group’s story. Much remained unsaid. Still, what was told strained credulity. Of the moon crashing into the Urth. Of strange mekanicals that could stir the world into turning. Of an ancient war that had started again, between people and undying gods.

Jace had promised he would supply proof of the latter, but the ship was in such a tumult to depart after they had arrived that any further explanations had to wait. She did not press the matter, not wanting to discourage their haste.

She pictured the anger in Rahl hy Peck’s pestilent face.

Best we be gone as quickly as possible.

Upon boarding, she had been shown to a cabin, planked in aged ironwood, all polished to an amber hue. Inside, she had her own bed, even a small porthole. She had never experienced such wealth. Still, she had balked at entering. All she had managed, with Jace’s help, was to toss her packs into the room, then she had set off for the open deck.

While the Fyredragon was more spacious than she could ever imagine, she still felt trapped inside it, confined by walls that pressed toward her. She wanted to blame it on a Chanaryn’s innate distaste for tight spaces, but she knew her difficulty breathing had more to do with her growing trepidation. She feared her decision to act as a guide had been a foolhardy one.

She should have been more patient, especially after securing her bronze treasure—which now rested on her bed in her cabin. Her decision to come aboard had been a rash act. She was abandoning everything and everyone she knew.

She glanced down.

That isn’t entirely true.

Drawn by her attention, Jace studied Crikit, too. His eyes grew pinched, shining with curiosity. It looked like he wanted to pin the young molag to the deck and dissect the crab.

Esme trusted he would never do that. She sensed a deep-seated kindness in the man—in his eyes, in his manner—a gentleness that defied his ax wielding in the street. She imagined he must have once been a softer man, until adversity had tempered him into something harder.

She had also learned he was journeyman to the alchymist, a man named Krysh. Jace certainly demonstrated that, expressing a keen interest in her, peppering her with questions about the desert, the ruins below, about the Chanaryn people. She finally had to ask him to stop, to give her more time to settle herself.

He had obliged, his face flushing with embarrassment.

Still, there was no escaping that intellect. He returned his gaze to the balloon, continuing where he left off, explaining what she had not bothered asking about.

“We had to switch to lift-gasses due to our trek into the Barrens. We feared the heated air inside the balloon would be challenged by the scorch of the deep desert. In the Frozen Wastes, that was not a problem.”

She nodded, barely hearing him. Instead, she tried to imagine the other half of the world, covered in ice, forever turned from the sun. To the Chanaryn, the sun was a constant. It was their god Pecche’kan, a fiery molag who scrabbled a tiny circle in the sky over the course of a year, forever shining down upon her people.

Even this part of the group’s story—of crossing the eternally dark Wastes aboard an ancient ship salvaged from an icy tomb—defied belief.

Maybe these people were all mad, addled and deluded.

If so, I’m even madder to be with them.

Still, she pictured her brother’s face: Arryn’s crooked smile, the twinkle in his eye, his hiccuping laughter that sounded like a braying mule. As grief welled up, she rubbed at the tattoo of a half sun between her thumb and forefinger. More than anything, she wanted to make it whole again.

On the journey ahead, this ship would undoubtedly cross paths with other groups of Chanaryn nomads, those making sojourns into the deep Barrens. The ship would surely stop and seek knowledge of the lands ahead by asking questions of those deep-desert nomads.

But I will have my own queries for them, too, about any sightings of a god-bound group on a pilgrimage.

Knowing this, she felt more resolute, settled in her decision to board this ship.

To discover Arryn’s fate, I will tolerate any madness.

A horn blared from the ship’s stern, drawing Esme’s eyes. Jace hurried in that direction. Esme hesitated, then followed, letting go of her grip on the rail. Crikit skittered after her, his armored legs tapping loudly.

All three climbed the steep stairs to the top of the aft-castle. This rear section of the ship stood higher than its middeck, rising even taller than the forecastle on the other side.

Once atop the raised castle, Jace rushed to the rail at the stern. Esme kept at his heels, trailed by Crikit. A few crewmen danced out of the way of the scrabbling molag.

The horn blew again, clearly a warning.

But of what?

Off in the distance, a large ship darkened the horizon.

“It’s the Bhestyan warship,” Jace mumbled.

Esme didn’t know what this meant or why Jace’s face had gone paler. Then the man stiffened and let out a sigh of clear relief.

“Thank all the gods, there they are.” Jace pointed, whether for her benefit or simply out of excitement. “They made it.”

She followed his arm and spotted a scalloped shadow racing a league or so ahead of the other ship. She could not make any sense of it.

Jace leaned over the rail and stared down, drawing her eye, too.

Below, a wide door hung open, forming a huge ledge leading into a dark hold below. Another matching door was closed above it, likely marking another storage space.

This ship is massive.

The horn blew again, sounding less like a warning and more like a clarion call summoning a straggler home.

She remembered how the caped swordsman, Darant, had mentioned the ship had been waiting on latecomers. While boarding herself, she had caught a brief glimpse of shadows shredding out of the sky and diving into that dark hold. But with the bulk of the ship and its balloon blocking her, she could not discern who had arrived.

Clearly, though, one more straggler had remained unaccounted.

Esme watched with Jace as the racing shadow grew into a giant bird—or some other winged beast. She squinted into the glare. She made out two figures riding atop the creature. As they approached, the wings grew ever wider, leathery but translucent at their edges. Tall ears stood high atop a head with a crushed muzzle.

Fear drove her back, forgoing her hold on the ship’s rail.

No…

A strange whistling filled her ears and itched across her scalp. Even this fit the old stories. She covered her ears and retreated farther.

It can’t be…

Jace glanced back, clearly noting her distress.

She backed again as the beast swept high, exposing a furred belly and trailing a pair of legs ending in massive claws. Then the creature tilted and dove down, sweeping past the cliff of the ship’s stern and vanishing out of sight.

She pictured it disappearing into the hold below and remembered those other shredding shadows.

How many of them are there?

Jace joined her, his eyes concerned. “Esme, what’s wrong?”

She had to swallow twice to answer. “What was that?”

“I told you we still had much to explain.”

This answered nothing. He tried to reach for her arm, but she pulled away.

“I should not be here,” she moaned out. “None of us should.”

Jace tried to console her again. “Bashaliia may look frightful, but there’s not a kinder spirit aboard this ship. His story is a long one. Let me share it with you, then you’ll understand.”

She took deep breaths, trying to slow her heart. She cast her gaze to the bow, to where the head of a draft-iron dragon stood high, leading them toward the Barrens.

“You sought me as a guide,” she whispered. “So heed this. The oldest tales of the Chanaryn people speak of winged daemons of the deep desert. We call them mankrae. ”

“Sand wraiths,” Jace said, using the common tongue.

She nodded. He clearly had been studying their language, which despite her terror endeared him to her.

“The aeldryn of our people, the god-blessed of the Chanaryn, recite ancient stories, carried on the tongue from the deepest past. They speak of the mankrae as enemies of the gods.” She stared up at the sun, at the fiery form of Pecche’kan. “They’re always harbingers of doom.”

Jace frowned and turned to the east.

A roaring rose all around, accompanied by a fiery glow along the ship’s flanks and rear. The Fyredragon slowly edged away, heading west, driven by its massive forges.

Another horn blared, bleating loudly, again sounding like an alarm.

From a nearby copper tube, a hollow voice full of command echoed out. “Gather in the wheelhouse!”

Jace stared another breath at the warship sweeping toward them—then turned and motioned for her to follow. “Let’s hope that doom isn’t already upon us.”