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T HREE WEEKS AFTER arriving back in the Rimewood, Graylin trotted his pony across sunbaked sands toward the thundering waterfall that hid the pirate’s lair. Kalder trotted alongside him, his tail flagging. The vargr growled at the nearby bustle of the ramshackle town nestled under the high cliffs.

The two of them had just returned from a three-day journey to the western heartwoods to bury Aamon. Graylin had picked the spot where he had first found a pair of scared, savage pups. He had thanked those cold, dark woods for lending him such a stalwart brother. After Aamon was buried, the forest had howled with the songs of the vargr. Kalder had answered it, even vanishing for a night.

Graylin stared down from his saddle at his brother. He had feared Kalder wouldn’t return, but by morning, the vargr had slunk back to his campfire, his tongue lolling, his eyes gleaming with a shine of the wild forest. Graylin would’ve understood if Kalder had kept to his forest, but when his brother returned, Graylin had shaken with relief.

Thank you, brother. I could not lose you, too.

Graylin straightened in his saddle and cantered his pony toward the gap between the waterfall and the cliff. Behind him, he had passed Kanthe and Jace. The two had been sparring with one another in the sand, one with a sword, the other with an ax. Those two made for an odd pairing, an unlikely friendship, especially as there was clearly an ongoing competition for Nyx’s attention, not that she gave either of them much satisfaction in that regard.

He glanced back.

Nyx stood at the edge of the river pool, staring up at a dark crescent circling high in the sky. The bat—Bashaliia—consumed most of her time, and he suspected a good chunk of her heart. The two young men would have a hard time competing with that.

Not that I’ve had much more success with her.

While an impasse had broken with Nyx, their relationship remained tentative and wary. He still caught flashes of anger toward him, some brittleness that had not yet softened, if it ever would.

Sighing, Graylin left such matters for now. He edged his pony behind the tumult of cascading water and into the warren of river tunnels and dry caves that spread far into these barbarous lands. Immediately behind the waterfall, a towering grotto climbed in ferny walls to a high black roof. He craned up at the scaffolding surrounding the bulk of the Sparrowhawk as it floated within the grotto. The cavernous space echoed with hammering, shouts, complaints, and the ring of smithies and the low grumble of forges and bellows.

Graylin edged around the chaos. He gaped at how much had changed, even during his short absence. The Sparrowhawk was undergoing repairs after its rough treatment in Hálendii, but it was also being overhauled and reconstructed for the journey ahead.

A loud bark drew his attention to the underside of the swyftship. “Graylin! You’re back!”

Darant climbed out from where he was ducked under the ship’s keel. The pirate wore boots, breeches, and a loose shirt with the sleeves ripped off. Soot and grease streaked the man’s face and clothes; his hands were stained black with oil. Darant patted the Sparrowhawk ’s prow and crossed over to him.

Graylin slid from his pony’s saddle to greet him. “I see you’ve made progress.”

“Aye.” Darant glanced back, wiping a brow, leaving it more grimed. “We’ve been riveting rails along both sides of the hull, to support the new draft-iron tanks. We’ll need all the flashburn reserves that my little hawk can carry. Both for her forges, and of course, to keep us from freezing our bollocks off.”

Graylin nodded. The journey across the ice would be a treacherous one, but they all knew the necessity. Shiya had shown them the doom that lay ahead, using a crystal cube that trapped a glowing version of the world inside. He pictured that ruin even now.

Moonfall.

Darant stared over at Kalder. “So, things went well with my vargr?” he asked.

Graylin sighed. Despite all that had happened, the pirate had insisted on sticking to the deal struck with Symon. It felt like ages ago, but Darant had not forgotten. The pirate had kept his word, ferrying Graylin to Hálendii as planned. Though, in the end, Darant had done so much more.

Still, upon returning here, the pirate had demanded his original payment.

One of the vargr.

Graylin glanced over to Kalder, who glared all around, his lips fixed in a threatening snarl at all the banging and commotion. Back when that deal had been struck, Graylin had insisted that he would decide which of his brothers he would forsake to the pirate. Then that choice had been stripped from him back at Dalal?ea.

After landing and securing the Sparrowhawk, Darant had stood at this spot, hands on his hips, and pointed to the vargr he wanted.

“Yes,” Graylin answered. “Everything went well. Your vargr is safely buried up in the heartwoods.”

Darant had picked Aamon.

“Good.” Darant stepped closer, hooked a grimed arm around Graylin’s shoulder, and drew him toward the Sparrowhawk. “Let me show you the new talons I’ve added to this fine bird.”

S WORD IN HAND, Kanthe backpedaled across the sand. Jace pursued him, deftly flipping his ax from one palm to the other.

They both sweated profusely, stripped to just breeches. The sand burned his feet, the sun blinded him, and his chest still ached from the healed sword cut. He wanted to blame all those reasons for why a journeyman from the Shields was besting a prince of the realm.

Kanthe finally conceded, throwing down his sword. “Enough! You’ve already disfigured one prince. Best you not make a matching pair of us.” He placed a palm on his cheek. “This face is too darkly handsome to ruin.”

Jace grinned, puffing hard. “Yes, you do love yourself so.”

Kanthe crossed over and clasped Jace’s forearm. “Well done.” He squinted sourly across the bright sands. “Though at some point, we probably do need to find someone who knows how to wield an ax or sword to teach us what we should be doing.”

“That’s true.” Jace rubbed his shoulder and nodded to the sword in the sand. “ You can definitely use more training.”

A shout drew their attention around, coming from the bustle of the town climbing the cliffs behind them. Two figures approached. Frell carried a sheaf of pages and a quill. Pratik hauled a stack of books in both arms.

Kanthe groaned. “Speaking of training…”

Frell nodded his head toward the waterfall, alerting Kanthe that it was time for his lessons. The two alchymists had set up a makeshift classroom behind the falls.

Kanthe picked up his sword, shook off the sand, and with a grumble followed his teachers.

Jace accompanied him. “Klashean is not that hard to learn. The grammar can be tricky, but it’s not dissimilar to Gjoan.”

Kanthe frowned at the journeyman. “You read too many books.”

Jace shrugged. His face and manner grew more pensive. Both knew their time together was running short. Jace was headed to the ice with the others, but not Kanthe. He had his own path from here, one that led far into the Southern Klashe.

“Do you think you can find it?” Jace asked.

“Apparently, that’s why I need to learn Klashean.”

Jace gave him a sidelong grin. “Then we’re certainly doomed.”

Kanthe batted at his shoulder.

Still, his own mood darkened.

He pictured the blue dot on the map Shiya had revealed, marking the possible site of another Sleeper like her. She believed they might need such an ally in the time to come. Frell and Pratik had accepted that challenge, especially as the Chaaen also wanted to pursue an angle of research involving Klashean prophecies tied to an apocalypse, stories found in their most ancient books, written shortly after the end of the Forsaken Ages. Those tomes were secured at the Abyssal Codex, the librarie of the Dresh’ri, said to be buried under the gardens of the Imri-Ka.

To gain the emperor’s cooperation to enter—and hopefully enlist an ally—another needed to accompany the two alchymists. Pratik could not return to the Klashean capital empty-handed. And he certainly could not bring Shiya. Which left only one other choice.

Kanthe sighed.

They needed someone who could intrigue an emperor, maybe sway him to their cause, someone who might serve as a pawn in a war between kingdom and empire.

In other words, they needed…

The Prince in the Cupboard.

R HAIF PACED AROUND the circular table in the center of the cavern. The blackoak surface was scarred and stained, clearly the site of many heated discussions among brigands, pirates, and rogues. Shortly, it would become the stout platform upon which the fate of the world would be balanced.

He stared at the platter of ripe cheeses, bowls of dewy berries, and steaming loaves as big as his head. There were also flagons of wine and a stack of small casks of ale.

At least we’ll be well fed and can toast the doom to come.

He crossed around again to reach Shiya, who was already seated. She wore a hooded cloak, which helped hide her bronze. Though in this private space, she had the cowl thrown back. Her hair remained soft, stranding in hues of gold and copper. Her lips were perfect pillowed arches. The azure of her glassy eyes tracked his passage around and around the table.

“Rhaif…” Shiya whispered softly.

The rare use of his name flushed him warmly. He glanced away, embar rassed by his reaction. He remembered that moment when Xan had shown him how intimately he was tied to this bronze woman. But Rhaif knew it was more than bridle-song that bound him to her.

“Are… Are you ready for the gathering?” Rhaif stammered, glancing across the spread on the table. “They’ll be here soon.”

She acknowledged this by parting the front of her cloak, exposing her nakedness beneath. She placed her palm on the center of her chest. The bronze glowed brighter around her hand as she inhaled. As she exhaled, she lowered her palm, withdrawing a perfect cube of crystal from between her breasts.

Once done, she closed her cloak demurely and set the glass atop the table.

Rhaif pictured the other cube she had pushed into her body, near her navel, back at Dalal?ea. It had been the same size as this one, only riven with copper and containing a globule of churning gold at its core. After that, she no longer seemed to suffer her earlier weaknesses, whether under clouds or in these caves. It was as if that cube continued to sustain her—which was a good thing. Considering where they were headed next—to lands frozen in perpetual darkness—she would need that tireless force.

Shiya still stared at him and perhaps sensed his consternation, though she mistook the reason. “You do not need to come with us.”

Rhaif winced. She may have thought she was offering him a kindness, but instead she wounded him. He dropped to a knee and touched the back of her hand. “You know I must.”

Does she feel nothing of the same? Is her heart forged of the same bronze?

Shiya rolled her hand under his. Warm fingers enclosed his hand. She turned the glow of her eyes upon him. Her lips parted with a whisper. “I know.”

The door banged open behind them. Startled, he let go of Shiya’s hand and jerked to his feet. Llyra marched in without invitation. Out in the tunnel, shadowy figures stirred.

“I’m leaving,” she said sharply to him.

He stumbled around to her. “Already? You’ll not be coming for the…” He waved at the spread atop the table.

Over the past weeks, their motley group—gathered from across the northern Crown—had slowly and somewhat warily grown into a makeshift alliance, united by blood, grief, and purpose, all centered on one word.

Moonfall.

Llyra eyed the table, as if reconsidering his offer to attend the meeting. Instead, she studied the spread and took what she wanted—like she always did. She grabbed one of the small casks of ale and tucked it under her arm. She scowled at the rest. “I have no interest in chattering and arguing. I know what I must do.”

She glanced over to Shiya. Llyra’s eyes shone with no avarice, not even for the block of crystal sitting on the table. The guildmaster of thieves had also witnessed the doom to come. In that moment, Rhaif had watched the greed fade out of her. Llyra was nothing if not practical. If he had any doubt, he just had to remember how she had sold him off to the mines in order to firm the guild’s footing in Anvil. So, she certainly recognized that all the wealth in the world would not matter if the world was not here.

“Do you think they’ll listen to you?” Rhaif asked.

Llyra frowned. “I wasn’t planning on giving them any choice.”

The guildmaster was headed out with a clutch of Darant’s men, to rouse as many of her ilk to their cause, to forge a secret army spread through whorehouses, thieveries, low taverns, and dark dens. With the drums of war echoing across the Crown, their group might need an army of their own before long—along with a certain cropped-hair Guld’guhlian to command them.

Rhaif nodded. “I have no doubt you’ll earn their—”

She crossed over, scooped the back of his head with her free hand, and pulled his mouth to hers. She kissed him hard, then maybe a bit tenderly in the end. She had never let him kiss her before—then again, she was the one doing all the kissing here. It was a heated reminder. If there was something she wanted, she took it.

She let him go, wiped her lips. Her eyes glinted with dark amusement. “Just wanted to prove to you, flesh can be tastier than bronze.”

He swallowed, his cheeks red hot.

She swung toward the door. “Don’t get yourself killed,” she called back.

He appreciated her rare concern, but mistook it, forgetting who he was talking to.

“You have a magnificent cock,” she finished. “I may want to use it again.”

Rhaif blinked as she slammed the door behind her.

Well, for last words… those weren’t bad.

N YX FELT THE press of time, not just for this meeting, but also for the world at large.

Still, she stood in the small cave far from the others. The floor was sand. A tiny spring-fed pool brightened a corner. Far overhead, an old collapse had opened the roof to the forest and sky above. The sunlight fueled a bounty of curl-leafed ferns and chains of climbing roses in blushes of pink. A few blooms had darker red petals, like sprays of blood.

She tried not to look at those.

Instead, she focused on the bright open skies, waiting. Then a shadow swept high and vanished. She held her breath. A moment later, the hole darkened with the passage of a large form. Black wings snapped wide once the bat was inside.

The wind buffeted her, carrying with it the scent of a gingery musk, laced with a touch of carrion. Bashaliia was long past feasting on gnats and meskers of the swamp. His larger body needed more sustenance. Gnawed bones were piled to one side of the cave—but no more than one might find in a vargr’s den.

She could not fault him for his new hungers.

Bashaliia landed in the sand, beating his wings high, then tucked them.

She crossed to him.

He shifted on his legs, prancing a bit, as he would do when he was small. It was a reminder that despite his large size, he was still her little brother at heart. He keened to her in greeting, enveloping her in his song. As her sight flickered between their two sets of eyes, she sang back to him. She sensed his unease with this new place, maybe even with his new body.

We both have much to get used to.

Still, she knew what troubled him the most.

As it did her.

She reached him and opened her arms as much as her heart. Even song could not replace the reassurance of soft touches and shared warmth. He tucked his ears, snuffling her face, taking in her scent. A warm tongue tasted her salt. He settled against her, framing her and balancing on the knuckles of his wings.

She lifted both hands and scratched his ears, rubbing the tender velvet in her fingers. She sang to him, entwining their strands, sharing his finer senses. Again—as she had noted upon arriving here—she could barely sense that greater mind any longer. It was still out there, like a storm on the horizon, just a whisper of distant thunder, but those winds could no longer reach her. The storm was too far off.

Understanding pounded her heart.

Bashaliia was losing his connection to his tribe across the sea. Their reach—as mighty as it was—had limits, distances they could not stretch.

She felt Bashaliia’s sense of loss.

Still, she had a greater fear. She considered where they would soon be headed. To icefields even farther away, on the other side of the world.

She knew what that meant. There would be no resurrecting him; his memories would not be preserved with his brethren.

If Bashaliia dies out there, he will be gone forever.

It was why she had come down here. She lifted his chin and stared into his eyes. You must not follow. While her heart quailed at the thought of being away from him, the possibility of losing him forever was too much to bear.

His eyes glowed back. He keened with sorrow, experiencing her fear and agony as much as she did his senses. Still, his strands wound tighter to her. He refused to leave her side, to abandon her again. She sought a way to convince him, to argue against his coming.

But another had had enough.

Up from within the dark well inside Bashaliia, a black wave struck out at them. Fiery eyes flashed from that shadowy darkness, clearly taking significant effort to reach this far. Still, the command was cold and resolute, veiled in threat.

N O.

Then that enormity vanished from them both, leaving a hollowness that chilled. Bashaliia pressed closer. She knew she could not ask this of him again. Instead, she leaned over, touching and singing him calmer, until her heart settled, too.

Finally, the press of time squeezed them apart.

“I must go,” she whispered.

After a final few touches of reassurance, she left and headed back through the series of tunnels. She moved leadenly, weighted down by her worries and fears. Still, before long, she reached the proper door and heard voices behind it. She was clearly very late. She took another breath, then opened the door and pushed into the warm chamber.

A stone hearth glowed in a corner. Atop a table in the center, a jumble of platters and mugs separated stacks of books and a spread of charts and maps. Everyone seemed to be talking at once.

Graylin was bent between Frell and Pratik. “When you reach the Klashe, seek out the Razen Rose. Something tells me that secretive order knows far more than they let on.”

Graylin straightened as she entered and waved to an open chair, then returned to his conversation with the group due to depart to the south. Kanthe caught her eye and shrugged with a shake of his head.

From the neighboring seat, Jace shifted her chair back.

She crossed to it and sank down.

Her friend leaned closer. “You missed most of it,” he said. “I think everyone’s questions have been answered as best they could be.”

She stared around the table, ignoring the cacophony. Shiya sat quietly across from her, with Rhaif on one side and Darant on the other. The two men leaned forward and spoke across Shiya’s nose as if she weren’t even there.

Nyx knew what that felt like.

Shiya’s eyes glowed at her, unblinking. Nyx sensed there was a question the bronze woman was waiting for someone to ask. As Nyx stared back, she heard a faint song, of distant drums.

Shiya’s crystal cube sat on the table, framed by her fingers. It glowed softly, while above it shimmered a tiny globe of the Urth. Small crimson and azure blips shone more brightly across its surface. Nyx knew the blue dot deep in the Southern Klashe was where Kanthe and the alchymists were due to head. Angst at the prince leaving spiked through her.

Their group had only recently been forged, but already it must break again. Still, she read the determination in each face. It united them all. While they might be separating in different directions, they all knew their ultimate goal, to stop what seemed unstoppable, to keep the moon from crashing out of the sky—which first required discovering a way to fire up the Urth’s forges and set the world to turning once again.

Jace tried to say something more, but Nyx lifted a palm and waited. Slowly the room quieted. One by one, they noted her sitting silently, a hand raised.

“I have a question,” Nyx finally said, and nodded to the cube, to the glowing globe of the Urth. She focused on the green marker shining deep in the ice on the dark side of the world. “Where exactly are we headed? Was there ever a name for this place?”

Shiya’s eyes glowed brighter. She shifted higher and gave the smallest nod to Nyx. “Yes, it has an ancient name.”

All eyes turned toward the bronze sculpture poised at the table.

Shiya continued, “From a language older than the Elder tongue. The name is meaningless, perhaps, but it roughly means where the winged protectors gather. ”

Nyx pictured Bashaliia and the rest of the Myr horde. Those winged guardians had looked upon the world for ages on end. Did that mean there were others out there like them?

Ever the scholar, Frell drew a sheet closer and lifted a quill in hand. “I’m curious. What is that name in this ancient tongue?” he asked.

Shiya looked across at Nyx, her eyes aglow.

“The City of Angels.”