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Lira had never expected to be running from a horde of wraiths. Running from guardsmen? Certainly. That was part of the job. But wraiths?

The spike sang as it whizzed past Lira’s head. She dove, tucking into a roll before springing up again. An embittered moan followed her as she ran along the ramparts, her feet deftly balancing where the stone wall narrowed and leaping over the parts that had crumbled away. The storm seethed around her, wind lashing at her pale cheeks and snatching her long, auburn hair from its tight bun. Below her, the sea hurled itself relentlessly against the rocks, grasping for anything it could pull into its angry churning waves.

This is wrong .

She cast a look over her shoulder to track the others. It had gone all wrong from the beginning.

“Lira!”

She turned at the faint sound of her name on the wind. Was that Vaskel’s voice?

Even as she snatched her gaze from the treacherous path, she knew it was a mistake. It couldn’t be him. The Tiefling should have been ahead of her, not behind .

Her foot missed a step, and she bobbled, her arms flailing for a moment as she attempted to right herself, her pulse jackknifing. The drop was long, and the landing sharp, and she stopped running for a beat once she’d jerked herself from the precipice.

Hells, she’d almost fallen.

She gathered a fistful of cloak at her neck, the touch of her fingertips on her throat grounding her. But she hadn’t fallen. She was still alive.

“For now,” she muttered, remembering why she was running along the fortress walls in the dead of night.

Despite Malek’s assurances that the ancient fortress perched on the cliffs above Siren’s Refuge was abandoned, her crew was scattered and on the run. He hadn’t been entirely wrong. The fortress hadn’t been occupied for hundreds of years—by anything alive. What their spell caster had failed to discover when he’d searched for any traces of magic was that the crumbling castle was under the control of otherworldly beings. Wraiths, to be exact.

Icy tendrils of fear slid down Lira’s spine as she thought of the rotted skin dripping from exposed bones, spikes protruding from alabaster wrists that were more mist than flesh. How had Malek missed that?

She reached the end of the rampart and ducked into a corner tower, flicking a blade from her waist and holding it at the ready as she descended the foot-worn steps. The air was stale, with the faint perfume of decay, a reminder that nothing had lived in the place for centuries. No wonder the reputed treasure hadn’t been found.

“It has an army of hells-cursed wraiths guarding it,” Lira whispered to herself, the sound echoing in the tight, stone stairwell.

When she reached the bottom of the spiraling steps, she slipped from the arched opening and right into the keen tip of an arrow.

Her breath caught for the moment before she recognized the face beneath the woolen hood at the other end of the arrow. “Cali!”

The Tabaxi archer lowered her bow and released a tangled breath of relief and annoyance. “Didn’t you hear me calling you? ”

“That was you?” Lira gave her head a small shake. “The wind was twisting the sound on the ramparts. I couldn’t tell who was calling me or from which direction. I thought it was Vaskel.”

Cali shook her head, pushing back her hood to reveal soft, gray down covering her face and peaked, flat ears. Darker gray stripes converged in a point above her black nose. “The last I saw him, he was leading Rog and Pirrin out the back of the throne room.”

The throne room. Bile teased Lira’s throat, the tang puckering her cheeks. They’d made it all the way to the massive throne room with mirrored walls and a high, domed ceiling before encountering the wraiths. They’d almost reached the gilded chest where legend claimed that the traitorous king had hidden his treasure. Lira’s fingers had tingled in anticipation of picking the lock that had glinted in the faint light, the metal surprisingly intact. Not that it would have been any match for a rogue like her.

But that had been where the ghost warriors had been waiting. The golden chest had been a trap, and now that she thought about it, not a clever one.

The chill that ran across her skin now was nothing compared to the fear that had consumed her when the wraiths had materialized, their skinless faces hollow and their royal garments hanging in wispy tatters. She glanced past Cali, bracing herself to see the misty ranks of the undead rising from the ground with an unholy wail.

But there was nothing, save the howl of the wind and the thrash of the sea.

Cali beckoned for Lira to follow her across the open courtyard, and they fell in step as they jogged toward the arched entrance of the ruined castle.

“How did Malek not know this place is overrun by wraiths?” Lira asked, as she and Cali hurried under the decomposing portcullis that sagged battered and broken halfway down the stone archway.

“How did Vaskel not sense them?”

Cali had a point. The Tiefling usually picked up on any undercurrent of emotion or danger. How had he not sensed that they’d been walking into a trap?

“Over here!”

Now that they were clear of the castle, Lira spotted Rog and Pirrin waiting for them on the other side of the drawbridge. Rog’s blue beard matched the cap he wore that didn’t quite cover his long, pointed ears. Pirrin was at least twice the gnome’s height with russet hair that sagged across his furrowed brow.

The thudding of Lira’s heart slowed as they cleared the castle and passed over the long-dried moat. The gnome and ranger appeared unharmed. They looked as displeased as she felt, but they didn’t boast any bloody gashes or gaping wounds. A wave of relief washed over her that her friends were safe.

Rog tugged off his cap and slapped it against his leg. “What in the moldy ogre’s sack was that?”

“An army of oath-breakers,” Pirrin said, pinching his brows together.

Lira looked at the grizzled ranger and wondered if he’d heard of the cursed wraiths before tonight.

“Did you know about this?” Cali asked, beating Lira to the question.

Pirrin shook his head, always better with gestures than words. “I knew the king had broken his word. Knew that the king he’d betrayed had cursed him. Didn’t know it meant…” He tipped his head to the remains of the castle but didn’t finish the sentence. There was no need.

“Vaskel and Malek should be here.” Lira swung her head around. “Wasn’t Vaskel with you?”

“Until we cleared the tower.” Rog’s voice was a grizzled rasp. “Then he went back for Malek. Said he had a feeling.”

They all turned to the castle. Vaskel’s feelings were rarely wrong.

Cali caught her eye, her whiskers twitching and the words unspoken. They couldn’t leave without the last two members of their crew. They never left anyone behind .

Before Lira could suggest they go back in, a cry ripped through the night.

“Malek,” growled Rog, producing a dagger with impressive speed.

Cali had notched an arrow into place and was aiming it at the walls, using the steel point as a guide as she searched for the scream.

But Lira didn’t look high. She looked at the expanse of rocky ground to the right where the cliffs plunged off to the sea.

Malek.

Time slowed as she watched the young mage stagger at the edge of the drop-off. His cloak billowed behind him like a sail unfurling in a gale, as if nudging him ever closer to the sea.

She ran toward him, her only thought to catch him before he went over. But when she was only steps from him, he whirled around. She skidded to a halt, her feet slipping the last few feet, sending pebbles skittering.

Black veins were crawling up his neck and face, which was frozen in a mangled grin.

“The spell was too…” The words splintered and vanished, eaten up by the sound of the ravenous waves.

Lira knew without him saying another word. Dark magic. It was the only explanation for the infernal curse that was overtaking him. Malek had always been tempted by it, but the crew managed to keep him from delving too deep—until now.

He must have attempted dark magic against the wraiths. A dark spell that had clearly backfired onto him.

“We can fix this,” Lira called over the wind that had started to shriek again.

He shook his head even as she held out her hand. “Too late.”

Vaskel appeared at Lira’s side, the pulse of him present even before he was. She glanced at his fierce expression, magenta skin twisted into a mask of pain. He knew what she did.

A series of hurried footsteps behind them announced the arrival of Cali, Rog, and Pirrin, but Malek didn’t see any of them. His face was tipped to the sky as he convulsed, his feet dancing closer to the cliff. Then one foot met air, and his body spun away.

Without thinking, Lira lunged, snatching the cuff of his robe as he went over the side. If only she could catch him, they’d be able to save him, cure him, find a way.

Then she was jerked back, saved from following the mage into the raging sea by Vaskel’s strong arm hooking her waist. The air rushed from her, the force of the Tiefling’s grip forcing her to slam into him as they both staggered away from the edge.

Lira’s heart seized as she stared at the scrap of fabric in her hands, all that was left of Malek.

He was gone. She sagged in Vaskel’s grasp with nothing to hold save a useless piece of the mage’s robe.

The cold that seeped into her bones provoked a shudder that rattled her teeth. When had she last felt warm? When had she last breathed easy or slept without a dagger beneath her pillow?

Shrugging off Vaskel, she stumbled away from the crew that stood at the edge of the cliff, the crew she’d run with for years, the only family she’d known since she’d left home.

And she didn’t stop walking.