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G RAYLIN HOLLERED AT the Bhestyan high minister, “Leave him alone! If you wish to exact punishment, inflict it upon me.”

Orren stood, contemplatively tapping a thumb against his forehead as he stared down at Jace. One of the crew had cut away the young man’s tunic, stripping it to his waist. The rough handling had jarred the crossbow bolt impaled in Jace’s shoulder, wrenching a cry from his lips.

Blood flowed more heavily now, flooding down Jace’s chest and arm. He gasped and gulped, as if trying to swallow down the pain.

Graylin had endured months of torture in the Hálendiian dungeons, leaving him calloused and broken. In many ways, he had earned that punishment—for breaking an oath, for failing to save Marayn, for never considering his daughter might be alive.

Jace did not deserve this suffering.

“Torture me, if you must,” Graylin demanded.

Orren turned with a shrug to face Graylin. “I believe I already am. Especially as you continue to refuse my generous gift of life. Salvation requires only a simple choice.” He flicked a hand between Rhaif and Jace. “One or the other?”

Rhaif pleaded with his eyes and with his words. “I’ve lived a long life, Graylin. Certainly longer than Jace. Not that I wouldn’t take another decade or two more.”

Orren flipped that wrist toward the Guld’guhlian thief. “See. It does not have to be difficult. But I do need to hear it from your lips.”

By now, Graylin had tried everything he could think of to delay, to wheedle some compromise, but this bastard’s patience had worn thin.

Fenn tried to intervene. “Spare them,” he pleaded. “I… I’ll return to Bhestya. Upon my knees before the king, I’ll confess my involvement. This I swear.”

Orren scoffed. “I have enough signed declarations of your guilt. One more, even from the lips of the traitor himself, serves no one.”

Graylin knew such an offer would be refused. The high minister could never risk Fenn returning to the king. The only part of the young man that would arrive in Bhestya would be his head, preserved and ready for a pike.

Orren flushed, plainly irritated by Fenn’s words. The high minister swung away, no longer enjoying his play. He stalked to Jace, clearly recognizing how to inflict the worst pain—to strike at the most innocent, the one who had garnered so much sympathy.

Leaning down, Orren grabbed the impaled bolt and twisted it savagely. Jace’s back arched, his lips peeling back. Agony trapped a scream in his throat. When it finally burst out, blood sprayed from his nostrils, such was the pain. His cry echoed to the sky, seeming to rattle the gasbag overhead.

Jace slumped backward, going limp, mercifully dragged into oblivion.

Still, Graylin continued staring up, as if in prayer.

But it was actually in relief.

Finally…

Only he caught the flash of fire, bright enough to light the top of the balloon—but all heard the deafening blast. Fabric shredded into flaming ribbons, then the volatile lift-gasses ignited.

Graylin leaped and covered Jace. Vikas did the same with Rhaif. Fenn—oblivious of this countermeasure—instinctively pulled his sister under him.

As a large section of the balloon exploded, the concussion slammed them flat, paining ears, crushing chests, squeezing hearts. Searing heat flashed over them. The air burned lungs and set fire to the fringes of clothing.

Graylin moved quickly, still deafened. Fiery sections of fabric rained all around. More got blasted against the walls, draping flaming ribbons across the sandstone. Overhead, the tattered remains of the gasbag flailed, on fire, smoking thickly.

Then, through the smoldering inferno, its source plummeted down.

Graylin had been watching for this.

A shining shape—a falling star of burning bronze—crashed through the flaming debris and struck the deck. Planks cracked under the impact. Shiya dropped to a knee in the crater, her body still shrouded in flame and smoke.

Men, already knocked flat or patting out fiery clothing, bellowed in shock and stumbled away in all directions—as if a god had dropped from the sky to punish them.

Overhead, a large aft section of the balloon still billowed. Warships had compartmentalized gasbags, divided by fire baffles and thicker blast shields. Still, what remained intact was not enough to hold the ship.

The Spur lurched downward with a heavy groan. Mooring cables ripped loose. Then its keel crashed to the bottom, which luckily was not far. The entire deck canted sideways as the ship rolled.

Struggling to stay upright, Graylin got everyone moving toward that smoking crater. Vikas dragged Jace’s limp body. Fenn helped his sister.

Rhaif rushed to the new fiery bronze god. “Shiya… how… why…?”

The thief held back from embracing her as her body still shone with the heat absorbed by the blast. She rose to her feet, naked, her clothing burned away or perhaps scoured off by blowing sand.

Graylin had no time to explain. He had enlisted Shiya’s help in secret, keeping this plot even from Rhaif, who surely would have objected. Only Vikas and Darant knew of this secondary plan. Hyck had built two bombs. While Graylin’s group had carried one, he had dispatched the other strapped to Shiya’s back. He had sent her overland, through the storm. Only her bronze shielding and massive weight had any chance of passing through the claws of the storm. Still, Graylin did not know—and Shiya expressed the same concern—whether such a trek was possible, even for her. She could get buried in the sand, or mired down to the point of immobility, or damaged by the intensity of the ishuka ’s fury.

Knowing that, Graylin had sent the bombs on two different courses and prayed one would reach its target.

Graylin stared up at the flaming ruins of the gasbag. Fires burned everywhere. One of the bronze cauldrons had tipped over, spilling oil that had caught fire, creating a flaming waterfall running over the tilted deck.

Men scrambled to put out the fires. Others helped the injured. A few simply leaped overboard, fearing a flaming shroud drifting down and smothering the deck—which was a likely risk.

But this was a warship, manned by the Bhestyan elite.

Out of the smoke, blue-armored knights closed upon them. Fury masked their faces. Even the presence of Shiya left them undaunted, though she was someone they should rightly fear. She had the strength of ten men and nigh their speed. But clearly the task given to her had taken its toll. She weaved slightly, limping on one leg, likely damaged by the crash to the deck. While strong, she was not without her limits.

Plus, Graylin’s group had been stripped of weapons and remained vastly outnumbered.

Still, he held out one hope, a way to break this impasse before more blood was spilled. He stepped to the edge of the crater. By now, he judged the battle commander to have a core of nobility, a righteous spirit—though at the moment, a cold fire burned in those steely eyes. The blast had knocked away his helm, revealing a hard countenance and an iron-sculpted jaw.

Graylin faced the man’s fury, knowing a warrior’s pain for lives lost. “Commander Trask! You’ve brought this ruin upon yourself. I sought a modest concession. A simple request. To have you collect what you were charged to secure”—he waved to Fenn—“and let us go in peace. But this was denied.”

Trask stepped closer, sword in hand. “Your request was not mine to refuse or accept. I serve the ship’s captain and swore an oath to a king—which extends to his minister during such times.”

“Then know this. You’ve been deceived. You protect the true traitor to the crown. You do his bidding. Does your sworn oath extend to one who betrays his own brother to gain a silver-eyed medallion?”

Fenn voiced his same rage. “My uncle’s lying tongue killed my father, hanged my mother, and beheaded my brother. You raise your shield and lift a sword to defend such a one?” He pointed to his sister, to her broken arm. “Does this look like the act of an honorable man?”

A scoffing bark answered him—but it didn’t come from the commander.

Orren stepped around Trask’s shoulder. The bastard appeared unharmed, only shaken, likely shielded by the ra-knights.

“Is it any wonder the king ordered him killed?” Orren spat out. “The last of a line who can twist lies into truths with such a deft tongue. Before your end, Fenn hy Pashkin, that very tongue will be cut out and nailed to the burning mast of the Spur. This I swear.”

“Then you’d better hurry,” Rhaif commented, “while you still have a perch for such a prize.”

Even during this brief discourse, the flames had spread. Smoke flowed heavier. Men continued to fight those flames.

Orren turned to Trask. “King Acker showed you what was signed, what was sworn, what your countrymen have admitted in ink and oath.”

Trask slowly nodded, swayed enough to firm his grip on his sword.

“Lies!” Freya called over. “All lies. Bought with gold or threat of torture.”

Orren shrugged. “What other words would you expect from a traitress?”

Another stirred among their group, as if ready to argue. But it was only Jace, waking again. He sat, rocking slightly, with his head lolling. Then, as if pulled up by strings, he gained his feet. He lifted a face devoid of pain, devoid of anything.

Rhaif went to help him, but Vikas drew him back.

Jace took a step—then his form blurred a breath, as if shaken by the hand of a god. In a blink, he stood several steps outside the crater. His head cocked one way, then another. He pressed a palm over his heart, then lifted it away. From that spot, a shape wafted out of his chest, snaking through the air, carried on thin wings.

“The kezmek,” Fenn gasped.

It appeared ethereal, fading in and out of view, a phantasm of the real creature, perhaps some essence of what the void had consumed before.

Orren stumbled back and ran into Trask. The high minister bounced off the commander’s armor and tried to escape. By now, a wall of knights surrounded them, holding everyone in place, trapping Orren as thoroughly as Graylin’s group.

All the while, the phantom kezmek tracked its only prey.

Graylin remembered Jace had fallen under such a sway when defending Nyx. Clearly whatever possessed him also valued Jace’s life, rising to his defense. It clearly knew who had threatened him, who had harmed him, and perhaps who had sent this very beast aboard the Fyredragon.

Orren made one last futile effort to escape—then the kezmek attacked, as swiftly as its real counterpart. Jaws opened, fangs unfolded, and the beast struck Orren in the chest, mirroring where it had been born out of Jace.

Orren screamed, fell to his knees, and batted at it.

His hand passed through the creature as if it were smoke, revealing the mirage. Relief shone in Orren’s face, which quickly soured to scorn.

“Ha, what trickery is—”

Jace cocked his head again.

Orren spasmed, back arching. The ghostly kezmek materialized more fully, seeming to gain substance as it fed off something vital inside the man. Orren’s skin bled of color, while agony stretched his lips into a rictus.

“Stop,” he gasped out.

All eyes turned to Jace, who looked on dispassionately.

Fenn stepped forward, clearly ready to take advantage of this moment, of the man’s terror. “Tell us the truth, Uncle. And be set free.”

Orren’s eyes went wide, the whites purpling at the edges. His cheeks sank in as if inhaling a deep breath, but the one drawing strength was Jace.

“Tell us,” Fenn demanded, moving closer.

The high minister trembled, trapped by the bite of the kezmek.

“Confess!”

Orren finally broke—whether out of panic, pain, or hope of release.

But Graylin suspected it had more to do with a weakening of spirit, a dulling of control, as Orren’s essence was stripped away, exposing the vileness beneath. This grew plainer as his sordid history unfolded, told with an increasing leadenness, reflecting a lack of will.

Graylin watched Commander Trask’s face during this litany of crimes, treacheries, and betrayals. The fury faded from his eyes, replaced with shame and horror as he came to realize whom he had been serving.

Another had a stronger reaction. “What foulness is this?”

A rotund figure shoved through the knights, breaking a gap in the wall of armor. The man’s face purpled with rage. Blood ran from a split brow. Upon his shoulders sat the mountain eagles of a captainship.

“Explain! The Spur burns and you all—”

Orren cut him off, raising a trembling arm. “Venga conspired. Planted letters. In Geryd hy Pashkin’s locker aboard his royal frigate. To cast the son as conspirator with the father.”

Trask turned to the ship’s captain. “Is this true?”

Venga shook his head, backed a step, then snatched a crossbow from a crewman. He aimed it at Orren, then—proving he had been eavesdropping for some time—swung the weapon to the true source behind this confession.

Toward Jace.

Before he could pull the trigger, a thin-limbed figure rushed up from behind on the quietest desert sandals, as if to share a secret with the captain—which in this case was his death.

A dagger stabbed into his neck, then out again, as swift as a lightning strike, nearly too fast to perceive. As blood shot from the wound, pumped from a panicked heart, the dagger kissed the other side just as deftly.

Stunned, still not recognizing his end, Captain Venga stumbled away—from a snake as deadly as any kezmek. He crashed to the planks, thrashed once, then slumped flat.

The assassin fled past the wall of knights and hurried to Graylin.

“I thought I told you to return to the Fyredragon, ” he scolded Esme.

She waved over to a scrabbling black form. “Crikit wanted to stay. Besides, I never climbed a wall that tried to roll on top of me—while my rope was burning.” Her explanation was rapid, breathless. She stared unblinking at Shiya, then pantomimed, passing a hand overhead. “Think I saw her before… thought it was lightning.”

Rhaif shouted behind them, “Fenn, don’t!”

Graylin swung around. It seemed another had found a knife, likely discarded during the chaos. Fenn pressed the edge against Orren’s throat. By now, the high minister had shrunk to a skeletal thinness. The blade raised a crimson line across the gaunt throat.

“He killed most of my family. Upon his confession—witnessed by all—I demand retribution.”

Freya stumbled over to him. “Fenn, no. It’s over.”

This proved true.

Orren gasped one last breath, his eyes wrinkling back into their sockets, his tongue withering into black leather. The kezmek vanished, and Orren slumped to the ground, away from Fenn’s knife.

With this release, Jace stumbled back, landing hard on his backside. He gasped in agony from the impact. He leaned heavily onto his good arm, confusion shining through the pain.

Vikas moved over and helped the young man return to his world.

Rhaif finally circled an arm around Shiya, who had cooled enough to touch. “Next time you feel like running off,” he scolded her, “tell me first.”

Closer at hand, Fenn sank to his knees.

Freya dropped next to him.

Both were now far freer, no longer burdened by the stigma of betrayal. Their damaged pasts could be made whole again.

Still, one remained unsatisfied.

“He deserved a worse death,” Fenn muttered.

Freya sighed. “Death is death.”

Graylin wondered if this was true. He remembered Nyx’s description of her encounter with the void inside Jason, how it had not only drawn her bridle-song, but utterly destroyed it, as if it never existed.

Was the same true here?

Had the essence of this traitorous bastard been burned away, leaving no hope for rebirth or ascension?

Just nothingness.

If so, then perhaps this death had a certain balance of justice to it after all.

Graylin looked over to Trask, wondering if the two of them could achieve the same balance. The commander strode over, looking dazed as his ship burned around him.

“How does this end?” Graylin asked him.

“It seems I must reconsider your request.” Trask turned, lifted a scabbard from the hands of another knight, and returned Heartsthorn to Graylin’s palms. “Once the storm breaks, you all are free to go.”

Graylin bowed his head in thanks.

“Please take no offense…” Trask stared over at Jace, then to the towering bronze of Shiya. “But I pray I never see any of you again.”