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I t had been four days since Larylis had last seen his wife and held his son in his arms, and every minute was like a spear to the chest. Not even the letter Berol had delivered three nights ago had alleviated the pain. If anything, it had only made it worse. For now, he knew his wife and child were going far beyond his reach.

At least they’d be safe.

He stared out the window in Verlot Palace’s Royal Study at the mountains and forest awash with sunset hues. Instead of the pink-kissed green that comprised his view, he wished he could cast his gaze over the Balma Sea and pinpoint the enemy. But not even reports from the southwest lighthouses had caught sight of the fleet.

He’d arrived at Verlot that morning after maintaining a breakneck pace with only the closest members of his retinue. He’d already met with his council and analyzed the updates from the scouts.

No reports of enemy activity. No reports of unexpected ships approaching Vera’s shores.

It was too early to expect much as far as his scouts’ efforts were concerned, for he’d only dispatched them by land and sea days ago. Yet shouldn’t he have received something ? Some word that the prisoner’s warning was true?

He’d done the calculations a thousand times in his head, and on paper a thousand times more, assessing different routes, different ports, different hidden harbors. No matter how many times he tried to come to a new conclusion, he couldn’t. Because if Darius had launched his fleet before the prisoner had left to spy in Khero, even if only days before the man had gotten caught and taken into custody, it didn’t change that the ships should already be here. They should at least be in sight. If they were staying in the channel, waiting to make the rest of the journey at some later date, merchant ships would have passed, giving scouts some information to glean from talk at the ports.

More troubling was Teryn’s newest update, delivered by Berol mere hours ago. Ever since Berol had brought Mareleau’s letter, he and Teryn had utilized her to exchange daily updates. Unlike messenger horses, the falcon could fly between the two castles, one direction and back again, in less than a day. So far every update from Teryn had been the same. No news. No updates. Then today…

The prisoner has been killed .

Larylis planted his hands on the windowsill, squinting at the mountain range in the distance but not truly seeing it. He assessed the facts. The prisoner had confessed to Darius being in southern Norun, and that he’d summoned his fleet to make landfall in southwest Vera. Within days, the spy had been found dead in his cell. He’d clearly been punished and silenced, and from someone inside Ridine at that.

And yet…

Larylis pushed off the windowsill and paced before the desk. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. He may not have emotion magic like Cora, nor was he a seer like Emylia, but the last time he’d had this horrible feeling—when he’d feared his wife was in danger at Ridine last summer—he’d been right. He’d received a warning from Cora back then, and he could have dismissed it, yet his instincts had picked up on a danger he had no explanation for.

And it was happening again.

He knew why. Knew which piece of the puzzle disturbed him the most.

If there was a traitor in the castle, someone who could enter the cell and kill a man without getting caught by the guards or gaoler, they could have silenced the prisoner sooner. Or freed him. Why act only after he’d talked?

The skin at the back of his neck prickled, and he recalled an echo from history. He strode over to one of the many bookshelves lining the study walls. The massive collection of historical records and tales were a new addition after Larylis and Mareleau had inherited Verlot Palace as their secondary residence. Larylis could always think better and clearer when surrounded by books, and with every step he took toward the shelf, the sharper his mind became.

He picked up the book he was looking for and opened it toward the back. Flipping pages, he scanned the text until his gaze landed on the name and date he sought.

King Samuel. The Battle of San Dohrinas. Year 159 of the Eagle.

He read the brief record of the battle, pausing when he found the paragraph he was most interested in.

After days of withstanding torture, the spy in King Samuel’s custody revealed where Borfian’s forces would invade and gave three locations that they would attack. King Samuel divided his army and sent forces to each location, leaving only a small garrison in San Dohrinas. The city proved to be the true object of Borfian’s attack, and the fortress fell in a fortnight.

Larylis closed the book and returned it to the shelf. The case he’d just read about wasn’t the first or last of its kind, but it was the most recent he’d studied. The king had done his due diligence to ensure the spy’s information was correct. Enemy forces had been spotted in two of the locations, so he’d trusted the third would soon follow. Yet in the end, the two forces had been a bluff and the third hadn’t existed at all. The prisoner had gotten captured and tortured on purpose, all to misdirect the king. And even though King Samuel hadn’t fully abandoned the city, he’d divided his numbers enough to give Borfian the win.

That was what this felt like now. Like they were being toyed with. Divided. On purpose.

The spy had given three pieces of intel: that Syrus and Norun had allied, that Darius was physically present in Norun, and that he’d summoned a fleet from Syrus. The first could be easily confirmed. They’d already suspected the alliance between Syrus and Norun. The second could soon be confirmed as well. As for the last…

Well, the fact that the prisoner had been silenced was proof enough that what he’d said was true.

But what if it wasn’t?

Larylis gritted his teeth. The whole situation felt like a mind game. A battle of facts versus instinct. He couldn’t call off his scouts. He couldn’t ignore the potential that the fleet truly was coming. But he wouldn’t sit around and wait to be made a fool of either.

“The corpse and the prisoner are not the same man,” the gaoler said, gesturing toward the cloth-draped body inside the cell. The burlap covering did nothing to hide the smell.

Teryn breathed through his mouth, desperate to get this meeting over with so he could leave the dungeon. He’d been in one of these cells before, and his stay had been anything but pleasant. Though at least there hadn’t been a rotting corpse back then.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” said a frail voice. Teryn did his best to ignore it, for it was coming from the pale apparition that hovered over the dead body. It locked hollow, pleading eyes on Teryn. “Please. I’m not supposed to be here.”

Teryn averted his gaze to the gaoler. The man was an inch taller than Teryn, which was saying something, for Teryn was used to being the tallest in most crowds. His arms were roped with muscle and scars, and his deep-set eyes were lined with creases. His lips were thin yet wide and he had a head of shaggy brown hair that reached his shoulders. Though Teryn hadn’t interacted with many a gaoler before, he looked exactly like a man who chained and beat people for a living.

He’d also been Teryn’s primary suspect for murdering the prisoner. Had been being the key, for the gaoler had an alibi. Everyone, it seemed, had a damn alibi, from the guards to the cooks to the dungeon sweepers.

“That’s not the same man, Majesty,” the gaoler said again. “I’ve beaten the living piss out of the prisoner. I’d know him if I’d seen ’im. He is not the same.”

Teryn shifted his gaze from the gaoler to Captain Alden, who stood off to the side. She shook her head. “He looked like the same man to me. I only saw him with bruises on his face.”

The gaoler nodded eagerly. “I put them bruises there. But not those ones. They ain’t even in the right places. Whoever put ’em there wanted the bastard unrecognizable.”

“I’m not supposed to be here,” the ghost lamented, stepping away from the body.

Teryn assessed the semi-transparent figure before asking the gaoler, “What did the prisoner look like before you, uh, beat the living piss out of him?”

“Older man. Gray hair. Slender. A real wily bastard. Bad attitude. Thinks e’s cleverer then ’e is.”

Teryn’s gaze flashed to the ghost. He could only assume the spirit belonged to the corpse, and even though Teryn couldn’t be sure the man’s hair was gray, for the apparition was colorless, he matched the physical description enough.

“I’m tellin’ ye, Majesty.” The gaoler crossed his enormous arms over his chest. “Not the same man.”

“Thank you for your time,” Teryn said. “You may go.”

The gaoler gave a clumsy bow and left Teryn and Captain Alden alone before the cell.

Teryn arched a brow and lowered his voice. “We’re sure he’s not our man?”

“He was off duty at the time the prisoner was murdered,” Alden said. “His wife confirmed it, as did the guards. The guards themselves patrolled in pairs, and each soldier has confirmed their partner’s presence. None saw any suspicious characters leave or enter the dungeon hall.”

Teryn had already been told as much. No one had seen anything strange. No unfamiliar servants. No delayed guard rotations. He had to acknowledge that much of the castle’s staff was relatively new and more positions were constantly being filled as the crown regained its wealth and stability. So could he truly trust that there hadn’t been a suspicious soul in sight during that time?

“I’m not supposed to be here.” The ghost approached the open cell door. Well, Teryn supposed there was one suspicious soul after all.

“Will you give me a moment, Captain?”

Alden’s brows knit, but she folded into an obedient bow.

Once alone, Teryn faced the ghost. “Who are you?” he whispered.

“You…you can see me. I knew you could.” His voice trembled, as thin and frail as a fallen leaf.

Teryn reworded his question. “What is your name?”

“John McMullighan, sir. Or…Majesty.”

That wasn’t the name on record for the prisoner. Not that anyone believed the name the spy had given. Vlad Samarus. The surname was one of the most common in Norun and practically screamed fake .

“Where are you from?” Teryn asked.

“I’m from northern Khero, Majesty. Greenfair Village.”

Teryn pondered the village name. It was north of Ridine Castle. “How did you come to be in this cell?”

The ghost’s voice turned pleading again. “I don’t know. I was at the tavern after a hard week’s work, same as usual. I headed home after a few pints, and then…I have no memories of what happened. Next thing I know, I…I’m looking at my body.”

If the ghost’s tale was true, perhaps the gaoler was right after all. That was, of course, even more troubling. It meant the prisoner hadn’t been murdered for giving away intel. Instead, he’d been freed and replaced with a decoy.

Seven devils…

The prisoner was free. He’d left them with key information about the enemy, but what could he have gleaned in exchange? What had he learned that he could now use against them? And most pressing of all, who the hell had freed the man? Who was the traitor?

Teryn rubbed his jaw. This was bad.

“Take me home.” The ghost reached for Teryn’s hand, making Teryn launch a step back.

Yearning struck him then, the same he’d felt when the warrior wraith had looked at him from the charred field. “What do you mean, take you home?”

“I don’t want to be here. I’m not supposed to be here. I…I want to go back. I have a home, a family. You must take me home.”

Pity tightened Teryn’s chest. “You can’t go home. Your body is dead.”

The ghost stepped forward again. “You can take me home. You can make this end.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The spirit’s tone took on an eerie quality, edged with desperation. The yearning sensation grew, multiplied tenfold. “You are a black flame, burning like the embrace of a cruel mother. As final as death. As comforting as home. Take me home. Take me home. TAKE ME HOME.”

“Fine,” he rushed to say. He didn’t know what he was agreeing to, only that he wanted to stop the specter’s frantic wailing. The ghost reached for Teryn’s hand again, and this time he didn’t flinch away. This time, he extended his palm.

Fingers he couldn’t feel closed around his hand. The spirit’s expression shifted from agonized to peaceful in the blink of an eye.

Then he was gone.

So was the yearning.

Teryn stared at the place the spirit had been, then down at his hand. There was nothing to explain what had happened, only the ghost’s desperate final words.

Emylia’s too.

…if I get too close, I’ll cease to exist .

Did Teryn have the ability…to send wandering spirits to the otherlife? Was that yearning coming from the dead, from their craving for oblivion?

His breaths pulsed sharp and shallow as his mind reeled to comprehend what all of this meant. His connection to ghosts wasn’t an Art of the six senses, nor was it an earthly power like the Faeryn wielded. He wasn’t a witch, an Elvyn weaver, or a Faeryn descendant.

Which left one question.

What am I?