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The lights of Thales stretched from the castle to the harbor and the coastline beyond. A looming storm turned the Pelagios Sea into silvered onyx, and the wind off the water was shivery, filled with the familiar scent of salt and fish.

Thales was the seat of power for the king and the largest city in the Southern Lands. Everything was made of stone. The buildings, the streets. Some said the resilience was also stone since the city seemed indestructible.

I’d lived here for most of my life, and never thought the stone was odd. Stone protected us. Many of the buildings were beautifully carved. The material took centuries to weather. But more than that, stone held the memories.

Ancient walls still stood, some in disrepair like the rubble in the cathedral. But those walls were a visual reminder of the battles fought two centuries ago, a time when the powerful mage masters of Thales defeated the dragon lords invading from the north.

The thirty-year war was called the Chaos, and the exceptional brutality destroyed towns and devastated the population.

But when it was over, the dragons were dead and the surviving dragon lords had been driven into the Faded Lands, where they remained, locked behind the Wall—an impenetrable barrier fueled by mage magic.

No one had escaped from the Faded Lands, not in two hundred years. Even so, every time the Malice Moon approached, the rumors resurfaced. The Wall was weakening. The dragon lords were returning, and with them, their monsters.

Taverns buzzed with gruesome stories. Doomsday omens like the blue-finned fish predicted disasters.

Rebels from the Faded Lands were said to lurk everywhere, attacking travelers on dark roads, or planting hoaxes.

I didn’t doubt Nikki’s “dragon bones” would come from an elephant, one of the mammoth, stomping creatures from the east that were rare in the Southern Lands.

Even with the stories, no one really believed in dragons. They would not return. Dead was dead. But the people believed in omens. A man could touch something like the blue-finned fish, smell it, feel the fear grip his gut…the kind of fear that couldn’t be argued away.

That was why Tarian worried over the prisoner from the frontier.

Agitators undermined faith in the mage priests.

In their ability to protect the people. No amount of reassuring speeches could quell the uneasiness, and if the dragon cults grew in power…

if disaster struck during the Malice Moon…

Tarian Ardalez would not have enough soldiers and mage priests to fight both the rebels and the blue rain.

One calamity would win and we would all suffer.

Unless the king acted now. Learned the secrets this prisoner kept .

We walked, Ildoran and I, while his iron boots clanged and my feet grew chilled.

I shivered but did not complain. People recognized Silk by her bare feet, white gown, and veil.

She symbolized the wyrd of old—an ancient symbol of blindfolded justice.

Striking fear in the minds of the guilty and fostering confidence in the king for the common folk.

Ildoran simply represented violence, and I wrapped my arms tight around my waist. “Where are we going?”

“You refuse the king’s command?”

“Do you?”

Ildoran’s fist flexed around the grip of his broadsword. “You drug a man’s mind with your trickery.”

“I get him to cooperate. With far less effort than your tortures.”

“Be cautious, lady.” Ildoran’s energy circled like a hungry dog, but I was used to the constant threats from weak men unable to fight the magic I possessed. Half of them struggled with their own magic. “The king made promises if you failed.”

“I do not fail.”

“But if you do, know that you’ll be tied on your back with your legs spread.”

“And you’ll be naked and on your knees in a public square,” I threatened, “begging a donkey for favors.”

Reminding this priest of my talent was the one advantage I had, and his flaring anger suffocated. But at least he’d think twice about assaulting me if, for some reason, I failed.

Around us, Thales had settled into the evening.

Shopkeepers closed early while the restaurants remained open.

By the time we reached the harbor, the night held a quiet isolation.

Sailors had gone home to their lovers or wives.

Boisterous voices leaked from the dock-side taverns, from men seeking companions or oblivion.

As we approached the wooden pier, the sound of knocking boards echoed dully, like a broken bell.

I stared at the wavering light from mage-powered torches, turning the dark Davinicus ship into an imagined monster floating on the surging tide.

There are certain images that can chill the imagination. That raise bumps on the skin. The black-painted Davinicus ship was one of them, and I asked, “The prisoner waits on a ship, then?”

If they were taking him to Deimos, there was no other way. I should have guessed.

Ildoran halted at the foot of the gangplank; the wooden ramp was wet, covered with slime, leading to the deck of a schooner—not a child’s monster—with a mainmast, plus two others.

Ropes as thick as my arm anchored the ship to the pier.

Mage lanterns swayed from the bow and stern.

Lights glimmered from enclosed spaces—perhaps where the ship’s captain kept his rooms?

Two hooded priests stood at the railing. Deep crimson cowls hid their expressions, although an oiliness from their mage magic coated my skin. Again, I should have guessed. Everything about the Davinicus priests felt like slipping too close to a nightmare.

More than that, the nightmare was the kind that woke a person in the middle of the night, covered in sweat, even knowing it wasn’t real, and you’d not sleep much afterward .

Ildoran widened his stance, turned his broad shoulders toward me. “Do you refuse the king’s command?”

The scabbard at his waist rubbed against the red cassock; the sound wasn’t a rustle, more like the eager susurration of a withdrawing blade—the sound I recalled from the bloody priest’s chapel, with Sevyn on the cold floor.

I was thankful for the veil; at least the priests could not see the tight muscles in my face. “Do you think I fear you?”

Ildoran bristled. My heart raced, even though I was safe.

The king told me often enough that he valued my gift.

He’d never risk losing it by sending me where I’d be harmed.

But I’d violated the rules. The priests were angry, and I guessed Tarian had given them permission to have a bit of fun as my punishment.

I measured the strength of my magic; I’d recovered most of what I’d used with Sevyn, but I needed the reserves for the prisoner and not this priest.

Through the deep pocket in the gown, I stroked the knife.

Torch light glimmered across the black water, flowing with the surging tide; the bands of yellowed light formed a moving pattern—like a ladder. The image resonated. To move forward, I’d need to take the first step.

I moved first one foot, then the other. The gangplank dipped beneath my weight.

Dipped further when Ildoran walked up the ramp behind me.

Men high in the rigging unfurled two snapping crimson sails with the black, six-pointed star centered—the sigil of the Davinicus priests.

One sail broke loose, billowing before the ropes were tightened. Shouts echoed in the night .

But something else. I gazed upward and caught the flash of black, leathery wings. When I heard a familiar chirp, I…breathed.

“This way,” Ildoran said. His hand was around my elbow, the first time a priest had dared to touch me, although it was to help maintain my balance on the rocking deck. Then it was to assist me through an open hatch and down the steep ladder stairs leading to a lower corridor.

The steps led to a dark, dank space, cramped and smelling of rotten food and unwashed men.

Then to a narrow corridor where tiny balls of mage light chased the dark.

Iron boarding pikes knocked against the walls.

Coils of rope waited to trip the unwary.

I’d always imagined Davinicus priests to be ordered and strict, but on a ship, items fell victim to the constant movement of the sea. Not everything was easily contained.

After eight or nine steps, we halted beside a closed door. Ildoran passed his hand over the surface and the door swung open, the edge disappearing in the murky gloom of an enclosed space with no window, no trace of fresh air or a sense of freedom.

The red priest said, “The prisoner’s in here.” He grunted something about coming back, then pushed me inside and jerked the door closed.

It took a moment before two faint mage lights brightened near the ceiling, and I could make out the lumpy shapes that turned into a chair, then a table bolted to a side wall. Nothing more .

For a heart-racing moment, I believed I was alone in the near dark. That I was the prisoner. But then…the denser shadows near the floor moved, odd and distorted, until the shape of a man separated from the gloom.

Nerves pricked at my nape. He sat with his back against the wooden bulkhead. His arms stretched upward, and the twist of his wrists locked into the mage shackles made the bones in his shoulders bulge against the rough, homespun shirt he wore.

A vicious twist marred his mouth. His hair was long and tangled. Blood-streaked. The color of moonlight, silver, unnatural for someone so young.

Another rope circled his throat and then looped between the mage shackles; whenever the prisoner drew his arms downward, the noose around his throat tightened. The torture was familiar but enhanced: the priests had also fastened the rope to the bulkhead.

With each tilt of the ship, the prisoner had a choice to brace or throw himself sideways and hope he did it with enough force to snap his neck and not slowly strangle to death.

Or he could wait until the ship reached Deimos, where the priests would surely strangle him.

Every muscle in the prisoner’s body strained to stay balanced, and the words flew before I stopped them.

“What did you do to deserve this?”

His laugh was abrasive .

“Enough for the king to send me a bride. Forgive the disappointment, my lady, but I’m in no condition to perform tonight.”