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REMY

Troll roars shake the mountain’s spine.

I waste time clearing the monsters stirred by Trezzoran’s struggle, enjoying the desperate pulses of his magic.

Obstacle gone.

After slaying a rock golem and a pod of wingless flood dragons, clarity fades.

The shadows crowd my thoughts.

My throat sears.

I need to drink.

Her.

Winking through the dark, I reappear above the base. The reek of monster blood coats my tongue.

Dry scales and wet dog.

Kobolds .

Guides launch long-range weapons, backs to the wall. Sentinels fight close-quarters with kobold warriors.

Magic blasts. Blood spills.

Kobolds screech and swarm.

Hovering above the skirmish, I frown.

What am I forgetting?

I watch over the battle.

Then I remember.

They’re meant to be my Sentinels.

This is my command.

If only realizing the problem had the power to make me change.

It does not.

My only motivation is the burn in my throat.

I pinch shadows, ready to wink to my drinking fountain. A cool sensation shivers through my heavy blood.

Yes. I remember .

Those blue eyes.

She asked me to repair the base.

Power comes too easily.

I summon shadows that spike from the ground.

My head throbs.

My throat ignites.

I wrap the beasts in living blades. They’re only scouts.

No mages.

No challenge.

I separate their heads from their bodies before my feet touch ground.

The Sentinels scatter.

Thirst drags me to the closest corpse. Its blood pools a brackish brown. It smells damp. Rotting.

But the thirst ?—

My magic twists.

Static.

Darkness.

Pain.

I grip my head.

When does this end?

“She’s our new commander?” A distant voice finds me through the shadows.

I cock my throbbing head to listen.

“I’m so fucking ruined,” another male mutters. “How am I supposed to go back to B-class guiding after that? ”

“Iris said—” The Sentinel chokes.

I don’t remember moving.

I’m standing in front of him.

Shadows grip his neck.

“M-m-m-major Azrid.” Two Sentinels stutter and salute.

A sweet scent clings to their hands.

I grab their wrists.

Passion fruit punch.

I drag my nose along a Sentinel’s finger.

Inhale.

Intoxicating.

His pulse quickens. “Your Grace?—”

“Who?”

He trembles. “Who am I? I’m?—”

“ Her . Scent. Who?”

“A woman? You mean the new S-class? Her name is Iris?—”

“ Mine .” My claws pierce flesh.

How dare.

They touch.

My.

Guide.