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I t was the dead of night when they received word from Morcant that he would come to Emery’s meeting place—a vacant patch of wilderness on the opposite side of the bog.

They had already trudged out of the ruin and found the perfect place to draw the sigil at the edge of the bog. Days without rain had turned the mud hard and chalky, perfect for drawing in, and they’d scattered dead leaves to camouflage it from view.

Ambrose lay in wait in the tree line. He maintained invisibility, though darkness shrouded him just as well.

Magic boiled, slick as oil in his veins, eager to catch fire, awaiting a target to devour. The sensation contrasted sharply with the caress of Emery’s spell.

The softness of his touch as he’d cast it made Ambrose forget temporarily the madness of the course he’d set them on. Morcant was not a particularly good man, but Ambrose still didn’t know that he deserved the recompense Emery intended to exact. Nor did he relish being the executioner.

Oh, he enjoyed it in the moment—the brief satiety once the magic achieved its destructive purposes—but later, it left him sick like a drunk come dawn. Remember, you aren’t doing this for him. You’re doing it for us.

It was cold comfort. He hoped Morcant might fall into the bog and drown, saving them the trouble.

Instead, he was late.

Ambrose suspected that was by design. Emery paced to and fro near the sigil, checking his phone for the time, his witch light bobbing dutifully after him. He shouldn’t let his fear show so plainly.

A portal finally opened. Morcant stepped through.

He bore no signs of harm, no bandages on his head or visible bruises to his face. The witch light cast him in monstrous, moving shadows as he emerged on the far side of Emery.

Opposite where they needed him to stand.

Emery said, “I wasn’t sure you were coming.”

Morcant shrugged lazily. “I didn’t know whether your correspondence was genuine, or if I’d be walking into another poorly constructed trap.”

“I wanted to—apologize.” After a beat of hesitation, Emery took a step toward Morcant. He had to try and herd the conversation toward the sigil.

“Wonders never cease. There is a first time for everything.” Morcant didn’t sound convinced.

“Profusely,” Emery amended through gritted teeth. His performance would win no awards. “I was—frustrated after your punishment. I lashed out.” As he spoke, he got closer. There were two horse strides between them.

“You were always prone to fits of emotion,” Morcant agreed. “I thought you might master them in time. But I still haven’t heard an apology.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You tried to murder me.”

“ So sorry,” Emery said.

Morcant was close enough to reach out and grasp Emery by the throat. Ambrose wrestled with the dread pitting his stomach and the instruction to stay hidden until the time came, but the sight of Emery in close proximity to this man who meant him ill riled his protective instincts.

Emery passed Morcant, as if too agitated to stand still.

Positioned there, he could perhaps encourage Morcant to take a few steps back toward the sigil.

“I didn’t think. I was desperate to avoid further punishment, and nothing I did ever seemed enough, so I thought this was the only way. It was foolish.”

“Unbelievably so.” Morcant remained steadfast despite Emery stepping closer than could be comfortable. “But even at your most unpredictable, I didn’t think you’d be so quick to add a second murder to the blood on your hands.”

Ambrose held his breath. He was attempting to goad Emery by bringing up Katzica.

“That wasn’t—!” Emery’s throat clenched, as if he’d taken what he was about to say and swallowed it. “It doesn’t matter. I won’t make excuses. I’m sorry.”

“I do not believe you, nor do I accept your apology.”

Morcant moved, but in the wrong direction. He lay a hand on Emery’s shoulder, the knuckle bones prominent as the teeth of a saw, his fingers devilishly long. The cords of Emery’s neck stood out as if the touch had cut him.

If Morcant made another threatening move, Ambrose would have to rush out of hiding. He could try and shove him into the sigil by brute force, but if he failed, Morcant would teleport to safety, and the entire ruse would be for nothing.

So Ambrose waited, muscles taut as bowstrings.

“I might change my mind if you tell me something,” Morcant said. “Only if you’re honest. I can always tell when you’re lying.”

“What do you want to know?”

Morcant leaned in. He spoke softly, but in the dead of night his words were clearly audible. “How did you destroy that statue?”

Emery’s back straightened. “Pardon?”

“I took the liberty of a quick detour on my way here.” As Morcant spoke, he walked a half circle around Emery, turning his back to the boy who wanted him dead and coming fortuitously close to the sigil. “After inspecting the statue for tampering, I found a spell signature. It wasn’t yours.”

Emery took a step forward. “That’s not possible.”

Morcant reeled around to hiss, “I told you to be honest.”

“I don’t know what you mean. If not my signature, then whose?”

Ambrose thought, if they survived this encounter, he would have to teach Emery to be a better liar.

He usually spoke with rhythmic affectation, like his words were lyrics to a song.

When he lied, he became uncharacteristically poker-faced, as if hoping Morcant would interpret his calm as a sign of sincerity.

They’d gotten very close to where Ambrose hid, a few steps away from the sigil.

The witch king’s voice took on an eager tone. Close. Closer.

Ambrose’s magic reared like a chained predator. The more it hungered, the more Ambrose feared its use. Something about its voracious appetite and Morcant’s questions and the eager voice in his head beset him with doubt.

None of their other plans had worked. Why should this be different?

“Don’t play stupid, Emery,” Morcant said.

He walked toward the tree line, toward Ambrose, who shuddered with the convulsive desire of his magic to feed.

“You have done many stupid things, particularly this year, but you were my prize student for a reason. I know you’ve found yourself an accomplice.

And that ‘cousin’ you brought to frighten Hellebore isn’t a witch, but he did something to her when he shook her hand, so …

” Facing the trees, only Ambrose saw Morcant’s sharp smile before it vanished as he turned to face his pupil.

“Was it him? Or have you found a witch foolish enough to join this fool’s errand? Name them.”

His footsteps disturbed the leaf litter.

He stood only a scant breath away from the perimeter of the sigil.

Ambrose could see the dark trench of its design in the flickering witch light.

One step backward, that’s all they needed.

Ambrose couldn’t pull him into the sigil without stepping into it himself.

“I promise you, I don’t know what you mean.” Emery took a harried step forward, trying to herd Morcant backward.

Morcant didn’t budge. “Don’t lie .”

As he said it, he thrust a hand out, fingers clenching around some tithe.

Emery crumpled to his knees, clutching his throat and gasping. Ambrose nearly bolted, his restraint held by a thread.

“That spell will only let you breathe if you tell the truth,” Morcant said. “While every lie will make you suffocate faster.”

“I didn’t—” The loud wheeze of air punched from Emery’s lungs unnerved all the singing insects and wildlife of the bog into silence.

Ambrose’s instincts sang for them, buzzing in his head.

He needed to intervene, but Emery occupied the most advantageous spot from which to shove Morcant directly into the sigil, right in front of him.

Still, Ambrose took a step out from hiding.

His magic hummed in his ears.

He didn’t touch Morcant.

Not yet.

“Your accomplice must be a powerful witch to have avoided my notice thus far, and the signature matched none of your guild siblings, so who ?”

The spell let up long enough for Emery to spit out a crumb of truth. “He’s not a witch—Agh!”

A strangled cry followed. Not from the truth-telling curse wrenching his throat closed, but from something purer and simpler.

Pain.

It set Ambrose’s teeth on edge all the more. Spells like that one required living tithes, so where had Morcant kept the small creature he’d just killed to make Emery suffer?

Ambrose couldn’t bear the cruelty anymore. He’d never had a stomach for it, and he knew Emery was far from a saint, but in the warm embrace of his magic that night, he’d seen a softer side to the man than before. One which Ambrose felt compelled—by no charm except his own gentled heart—to protect.

Emery bowed over his stomach, head between his knees, moaning when the spell gave him breath enough to vocalize his pain. Low enough to the ground that Ambrose could stand over him.

“You are going to tell me which fool you’ve coerced into assisting you,” Morcant said.

Ambrose took a step closer.

“You will cease these futile attempts to kill me and accept my leadership or continue to suffer the consequences. If you behave reasonably, I can be benevolent, so I will ask you again. One last time.”

Ambrose stood over Emery. His body was not enough to block the effects of the spell, but—

“Who is your accomplice?” Morcant demanded.

“I am,” said Ambrose, and he shoved Morcant with all his strength into the cage of the sigil.