I’m face-to-face with an arrogant Lacor alt-mage who just essentially snitched on me. The static cracks in the sky cast shadows behind him as the sunrays glisten between them, and all around me, members of the crowd gasp when they realize I’m out of bed. Whispers of “Dragonborn” and “Rank Breaker” resound, and over it all, the tap of Scorius’ cane pierces through the noise as he makes his way back from the castle to scold us.

  We just interrupted a high meeting with a Lacor duke. This isn’t going to end well.

  Nalthir’s eyes glint white as he smirks at me. “You’ll crawl back where you belong, sub-tier trash.”

  “So, they really do have tiers in Lacor too. Good to know some mythos wasn’t lying. Keep talking. Every word you utter will just make me more dangerous.” I set my jaw, half a mind to unleash Boeru.

  “An awakened. Please. My alt-magic can strangle your beasts. I’m everything you should fear, Dragonborn.”

  “Enough.”

  The crowd parts to let my hawkish Prominent through. His cloak billows as he hobbles on, thick eyebrows framing hardened golden eyes set only on us.

  “Nalthir. My peace with your master is a contingency hanging by a thread. Perhaps I will cite your insolence when I decide to drown him again.” Scorius’ words send goosebumps lining my arms.

  The Lacor man’s smirk falls to a frown too quickly. Did he actually think my Prominent would see his reason? I fought for Freedom’s Ire, for gods’ sake. What has this prick done?

  “Go aid the constructionists with foundational work.” Scorius perches his hands over his cane, the crowd still fanning behind him like colorful wings. “If you’re lucky, I won’t throw you in it.”

  Nalthir hisses under his breath, running a hand through his feathery hair.

  “And the two of you.” Scorius tightens his fists around the handle, boring into Layla and Jurso. “You had a single task. Was one wounded iron rank too much for you?”

  Layla lowers her head down as Jurso turns away in shame.

  “It was my—”

  “Ah.” Scorius shuts me up before I can claim responsibility. He seems more unhinged here. Or free, rather.

  In Elshard he was always in hiding, brooding with his concoctions in his lair beyond the room of many doors. But here? He’s out in the open, feared like I imagine he once was in the great war.

  “With me, Dragonborn, now.”

  I turn to my friends. “I owe you one.” Then I’m off toward the castle, holding my bandages muffling the icy pain. The crowd eyes me curiously as I walk beside Scorius. Angry frowns and befuddled awe fill my periphery. I’m suddenly getting the feeling Nalthir’s sentiment isn’t uncommon.

  “You had another week of tincture, at least,” Scorius growls, stopping just long enough so I walk beside him.

  “My head swam enough, Prominent.”

  “Mm. How little you truly know about the Head Magus’ high magic.” He frowns.

  The castle door’s magic buzzes in my ear as we cross the threshold. I expected beefy knights from the highest war-tier battalions in the next room. Instead? Darkness swallows us.

  In a hazy fog, two mages appear with glowing eyes standing in our way. They’re apprehensive, both staring right at me. The faint light shows the Ire’s crest sewn into their robes, and the murkiness of the magic barrier surrounding us reminds me terribly of the warring dark ocean. I can smell the tar of polluted spirits not far.

  They’re at odds about how to proceed. On the one hand, one of the highest-ranking members of Freedom’s Ire stands before them. Hells, they literally wear his wing on their chests. On the other, there’s me—some kind of diseased beast in their eyes.

  “You dare make me wait?” Scorius’ voice rattles through the corridor.

  The mages don’t say a word, but rather swing their staves to remove the warring dark barrier blocking us from the inside. It waves away like a flock of hawks, revealing closely packed brick walls with runic symbols etched atop them.

  That settles that, I guess.

  Scorius saunters in, saying nothing while the guards are in earshot. The balcony overhead is busy with more Ire members rotating carved circular stones within the wall. I’ve seen these designs before in folklore mythos. Those designs—triangular etchings—they’re sight runes, my guess is to patrol the outer portals of the side-tier. Rune magic is supposed to be a lost art since wards took prominence. Then again, all the mythos floating in my head is thrown into question yet again. First the sub-tier lies, now the Elshard half-truths.

  No. I can’t let myself be a forever skeptic. So much of what Elshard gave is tried and true. Thinking back to the sparring arenas in House Sivus, and all the donor battles in the sanctum… I can safely say I’m no longer in the dark, even if there’s a whole other world to learn.

  “Can we speak freely?” I ask.

  “This movement of ours is a delicate one. It could cave to dust at any moment.” Scorius eyes the workers above—a mix of Miria and Lacor attire among them. “Our cultures do not mesh in the slightest. Their process in rousing the afterlife makes Miria’s look like bliss.”

  To hear Scorius admit that, especially being a former general in Miria’s ranks… it’s concerning to say the least. That means the more ruthless of the factions is on the brink of victory.

  “If we do not succeed in curbing the war, all is lost,” he goes on.

  “The Bane of Sile?” I inquire.

  “You couldn’t have been awake for more than a few hours, and the Ire’s mission has already reached your ears? Your marked are not versed in taking orders.”

  “Can you blame them? Besides Renesta, you and your band have been looking us straight in the eye and lying about your allegiance for an entire year. Hell, if you hadn’t saved me, I wouldn’t trust you either.”

  “Inexperienced fools cannot be trusted on a whim,” he says.

  “What do you make of this royal version of Renesta, then?”

  He scoffs. “Chosen by the House Father of Sivus, Trias Baldren. His bliss is strong, but his heart is soft. A foolish choice to induct her so young. If she falls out of favor of the Ire now, who knows how hard she will turn. It’s better the choice be made by experience.”

  “Like we did in Call to Arms?” I arc my eyebrow.

  “I suppose. Though you still failed spectacularly, even if you did reach new limits with your bonds.”

  I deflate a bit, still holding my bandages.

  “What did those loyal marked fools of yours tell you?”

  “It wasn’t them,” I admit. “The crowd around the castle blurts their fear out loud. Believe it or not, they held to your orders as best they could. The fear you must’ve struck in them…”

  “Mph. As I said, Dragonborn, this movement hangs on a thread, held together by your father.”

  “And just me being around him can potentially damage his spirits, right? Because of my condition and all…”

  “That is the working theory. Yes. Though the stubborn fool refuses to stay away, he did agree to let us try and subdue the High Magus’ magic, and reduce the chances of Arkitus spreading again.”

  We turn left into a dreary hall with moss growing over the archway and water dripping at either side into a pond. The air thickens, and I realize we’re crossing another magi threshold.

  “Safeguards,” Scorius answers my curious eye. “Casterban is a master of Elden magi, and decreed the usage of runes on every spire checkpoint. Some, unfortunately, have side effects.”

  “Mythos says they’re creations of old by the all-powerful Elden mages who no longer exist. We can modify them, but never summon.” I squint toward the ceiling, looking for the rune within the brick seams. A faint amber glimmer shines through the cracks at certain angles. “Aren’t wards the more potent sentry magic these days?”

  “Written by mages not privy to Elden,” Scorius huffs.

  Excitement fills my lungs. More new information in our favor. Does Freedom’s Ire actually have an edge on the warring empires?

  We press on into a room danker than the warring dark entrance. The stone is grey and decaying with black sludge crusted down the edges. The smell is of rotting meat and mold making my nose wrinkle.

  “So quickly you forget your roots.” Scorius picks the left of the three giant doors in the room and grabs the gothic-style handle.

  “Did you seek to replicate the Sept dungeons, Prominent?” I hold back my smirk.

  “The riches of Miria do not exist here.”

  “Yet. Get a few donors to our side—”

  If looks could kill, Scorius’ would’ve put me in my grave.

  “Kidding.” I throw my hands up.

  He pulls open the door with a wohm as the hinges churn. Inside lay a familiar lair of alchemic vials and bubbling containers. I guess he really did try to scoop up everything he could from his chamber in Elshard before coming here.

  Something is different, though. The rune etched onto the far-left wall is huge and glowing, with a distracting line spinning around the ancient symbol. I can’t make heads or tails of the design. Two squiggly lines downward and one diagonal sword slash through them could mean anything.

  “What in hells is that?” I point.

  He hoots in his dark way. “Upgrade to the Prime bubble. A dwelling rune.”

  Whoom!

  The door slams shut on its own, scaring another ice spike into my abdomen. I’ll never get used to that.

  “Now… we can speak freely. I do not trust the Lacor diplomats scurrying through our halls.” He scowls.

  “They wear your wing, Prominent. You must have some trust.”

  He huffs, hobbling to his vials to ignore me. He’s bent about something. Probably Nalthir’s master he mentioned before. I wonder…

  “But that’s not why we’re here.” Scorius stamps his cane.

  “Shouldn’t you be with that Lacor duke who just flew in?”

  “Something tells me the meeting will go smoother without me,” he says, turning to face me. “Stand straight.”

  Against the searing pain, I raise slowly to square my shoulders—Jurso’s bliss already wearing off.

  “Did you think about the reaction of adding bliss while using my tincture?” His frown deepens.

  “Being stuck in a dark corner makes one yearn to get out,” I say.

  “Yet a future general must be intelligent in his actions all the same. Or were my instincts right, Dragonborn? Are you the fool?”

  I clench my jaw, thinking back to my dragons breaking formation to avoid projectiles from Miria’s elites. My brother, Kane, leaping to my dragon in the nick of time, combating Efias’ alt-magic before it could reach me. The lightning I wielded to strike my uncle. I consider myself brave at this point. But… am I the fool?

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “You abandon caution when your wounds still splinter inside you, yet you clutch onto it, hiding your dragons even from yourself,” Scorius notices.

  “What of it?” A defensive pang hits my gut. Seeing Sefene’s wing coated in a strange bliss film to constrict the Arkitus infuriates me. Not to mention, she’s the glue of the roost, balancing all of the dragons’ auras with her heavenly bliss. Risking her just shows how careless I’ve become.

  “Let them in,” he says sternly.

  I shake my head.

  “This is no place for fear,” Scorius’ voice deepens, black feathery warring dark dripping from his shoulder as he takes a step closer. “You overcame it in Call to Arms, nearly killed Lor’fyre in a rage, then summoned the full might of your dual-tempered bonds to rise against your faction in one swift motion. Has your failure stripped you of that valor?” He bares his teeth, stepping closer to me.

  The strangling clutch of Arkitus lives within me again. Not in reality, but in my mind.

  With an iron grip, Scorius claws my abdomen.

  I see white.

  The blinding pain is the same as my first night here.

  Warring dark crisscrosses over my forearms as Scorius rips the remnants of Jurso’s bliss out of me, leaving just the raw throbbing pain of Head Magus’ ice spikes.

  In pure instinct, I swing at the old general, only for his black feathery wing to manifest, tangling my fist and throwing it back.

  “My tincture was not to dull the pain, Dragonborn. I wanted you to experience the ramifications of your actions.”

  The spikes replicate inside me, causing me to double-over.

  “It wasn’t to eradicate Foren’s magi, either. I wanted you to learn how to resist it yourself.” Scorius stands over me, chin high, one dark wing spread.

  “Then what have I been drinking?” I put pressure on my wound.

  “Call your dragons.”

  With anger spilling through my throat, I summon my warring dark, letting it overtake my vision. Scorius’ body goes black like a silhouette, stolen gold slivers resplendent within the rushing river of dark cycling his body. I see it all.

  This is new. Does it have anything to do with me being iron rank now? Like I’ve unlocked some sort of tome inside me.

  I flex, thinking back to the Sept arena when I syphoned warring dark from Grondus. I can do it again now, even from someone as powerful as him. And not just the dark either. I can pull Jurso’s golden slivers of bliss he stole from me. My body calls for it.

  With a deep breath and insurmountable pressure consolidating near my heart, I syphon the slivers of bliss circling his essence, and target Foren’s pulsing ice magic once more.

  He smirks at that. Not sure if he let me take it, or what, but I can breathe again.

  “You’ve grown strong.” He extends his wing for me to grab, which I take. “Call your dragons. My tincture burnt out the remnants of your disease. Though it could come a third time, it won’t happen now,” he assures.

  Relief runs through me like a river.

  I crack the window in my mind, where Boeru claws out like I’ve kept him in a steel cage too small. His long neck cranes over my shoulder, while his mighty wing manifests beside me.

  “What is this folly, mortal? Keeping us closed out of your mental gates?” Boeru sniffs around the chamber, wrapped blind eye facing me. “Have you gone soft from a tiny battle?”

  “Shut up, Boe.” I flick him. “I’m worried about you jerks. Seeing Sefene wrapped in my Arkitus—”

  “Worried? We are dragons bred for war!” He spins his maw to be facing me, ignoring Scorius entirely. With all the fever dreams, it feels so long since I’ve stared back at his crystal blue eye and grey scales. The spikes lining his shoulders leak ethereal essence. “And although we follow your will, we are more than capable of making our own decisions.”

  “As am I,” I counter. “Understanding the status of my condition was paramount before taking another risk.”

  Boeru growls. “What Sefene did was no risk of yours. She made a noble sacrifice.”

  “I’m forever in her debt, just like I’m in yours,” I growl right back.

  Scorius clears his throat. “You assume too much, Torn Wing. Invite your brothers and sister to join us so I won’t have to repeat myself.”

  Black smog shoots from Boe’s nostrils as he swings to face Scorius. He manifests more profoundly as I extend my leash of warring dark.

  The stone cracks under his claw as he steps into full form, towering over my Prominent. “I take no orders from you, Unbonded.”

  Scorius’ eyes glint gold. “Careful, spirit.”

  “No.” Boe huffs again in his face. “Had you told us of your little plans, we could have better prepared.” He twists his neck to intimidate Scorius. “Perhaps if you did, we could have coaxed the Storm Lance to join us.”

  “Lor’fyre is loyal only to House Valor. His bond, Noctus, is an extension of him, not the other way around. The artillery he holds will always be aimed at you,” Scorius assures. “Keeping him from ascending at Call to Arms was the best Haledyn could’ve done to curtail him.”

  “The foolish general thinks puppeteering in the background… keeping a roost of dragons in the dark is the way forward.” He bares his teeth. “In the days of old, you king movers used to have more sense.”

  Scorius cackles. “You forget your place, dragon. Breathing down armies with blue flame may have been your first life and death, but here? You’re only as good as the limitations Elden mages place on you. Through all that transcendence… the dragonborn is only iron. Which means… you… are only iron.”

  “Dare to test that theory?”

  I reel Boe back by pulling some of the warring dark away, causing him to growl louder.

  “Let’s give it a rest,” I say, patting Boe’s shoulder.

  “The awakened is right. There is no time for this folly.” Scorius paces toward the rune on the wall. “Bring the others out so I can explain the state of things once, while we’re all still here.”

  Recalling the feeling of summoning the entire roost in Elshard sends a pulse of warring dark echoing from my heart, spreading to my limbs. I’m radiating again, even with the Head Magus’ spikes piercing me.

  Dovesier climbs out of me first, manifesting with tiny bolts up and down his white scales and consolidating around his drooping horns. If he doesn’t watch where he’s throwing his massive stone wings, he could knock any of us unconscious with a single beat.

  He chuffs at both his brother and Scorius like they’re nothing to him, riling the antagonistic side of my bond in the strongest way, creating pulsing pressure lining my arms.

  Next, Kelfore and Risorgus cascade at my back, manifesting from my dark shadows to create their own overarching ones. Blue scales and a shape-shifting tail stand opposite a red maw with gold wings. Lastly, Sefene, the smallest of the dragons, extends her mismatched white and orange wings. Pearl-colored scales lay flat around her neck like a necklace. The one who brings balance to my bonds stands beside Boeru, showcasing the wing inflicted with Arkitus.

  To my shock, evoking my bonds didn’t cause more pain from my wound, and I don’t feel even an ounce of the Arkitus in my lungs. Perhaps Scorius really did eradicate the remnants.

  Scorius ignores Kelfore’s snapping maw and walks right up to Sefene, inspecting her wing. Her crystalized casing surrounding the disease intrigues him. “A quick reaction to stop the spreading.”

  “It was the only way, Unbonded.” She spreads the wing for him to inspect, and it’s in this moment I realize they’re acquainted.

  Of course, she’s been at my father’s side this whole time. Of course she knows him. She probably knows more about this place than anyone.

  “My brothers do not yet trust you, but in time, they will,” Sefene’s blissful voice carries. “They will trust Freedom’s Ire as the only path.” She turns on them with reproach.

  “You always did have an off-rhythm heart, little sister,” Risorgus rattles. “Defying our great mother on every turn.”

  “And you have wisely accepted punishment for your crimes against me.”

  “Yet now that you fly among us again, I find myself in the same predicament… against the grain of war.”

  “This would be a war you cannot win,” she warns.

  “Dragons.” I snap my warring dark like whips for their attention. “Tell me everything.”

  “My chambers can do you one better.” Scorius turns away from us and faces the room. “I had Casterban install this one personally.” He nods toward the rune. “An eye into the afterlife, where so few have traveled.

  I grit my teeth. My trips there have been less than pleasant, but productive nonetheless. The chaos of that plane isn’t something I look forward to experiencing when I die.

  As Scorius holds up his clawed hand—releasing slivers of warring dark—the spinning tail circling the rune shifts directions, and a magical projection of a broken bridge floating in an endless sky comes into view. It floats like a protruding portal in front of us, sending the rotting metallic smell of the afterlife to pollute an already damp space.

  I’ve been there before… and can feel the intense winds pulling at me all over again.

  A warrior with a defined winged helmet stands atop it, overlooking the ledge in the center.

  “I do not recognize that warrior.” Boeru huffs, stomping over toward the projection.

  “Of course you don’t.” Sefene prowls beside him. “One of Sile’s scouts, trying to determine which way to guide the storm.”

  Scorius puts his arms behind his back, staring up at the projection. “We have come to learn, through Elden channels, that Sile is no longer content with the wars of the afterlife, and intends to push his unending storms through the tiers.”

  “Can we back up a second. Why are we talking about a mad king’s made-up myth?” I ask, pushing to the front of the group, trying not to wince.

  “In legend, he is much more than that, mortal.” Boeru clenches his jaw. “Rumored to be the force behind the storm that plagues us. A treacherous being prayed to before battles. Alas, it is all hearsay not relevant to a dragon’s plight.”

  “So even the dead have not seen him.” I shrug.

  “Just because my brother does not believe… does not mean Sile doesn’t exist.” Sefene dips her maw eye level with me. Her pearly blue irises penetrate deep. “We know he is there.”

  “How?” I ask.

  Boeru swings his neck. “If a being like that exists at all. It is beyond our comprehension, sister. In all my years scouring the afterlife, I only had to avoid the wretched storm to win my battles. What significance can he possibly be on my quest to discover Elden?”

  “My dear brother. You’ve always sought to transform the way of things.” Sefene drapes her clean wing over Boe’s head, which I assume is a gesture of comfort. “Ever since you were shoved off that cliff.”

  “Now is not the time to reminisce.” Boe gently pushes the wing away with his decrepit one. “Our bonded has chosen a path of great deviation. We must understand it in full for all our sakes.”

  Sefene chuffs. “Even the might of Elden magic will not be enough to stop him.”

  “You drown yourself in folklore now?” Boe challenges, lifting his neck. “Like the kings and queens that used to ride us?”

  “I wish. Far from it,” Sefene’s voice lowers.

  “This is folly.” Risorgus blows icy mist from his nostrils.

  “It is not.”

  “Then show him, defiant sister!” Kelfore puffs his mighty chest, swinging his hammer-tail and nearly knocking the wall behind him.

  “I would’ve imagined a more practical approach from a war general,” I say, siding with the majority of my roost.

  Scorius sighs, and nods again at the rune’s projection.

  The skies of the afterlife darken as the wind picks up. A low chant plagues the air, causing all of the dragons to dip their heads in anguish.

  I look around tentatively, attempting to comfort them, then hold my head high to witness the knight who’s intricate gauntlets dissolve before our eyes. His hands are decrepit with glowing teal gems in the center, and when he presses them together, the whole afterlife shakes.

  The chanting deepens, and the whipping winds cause the rune to quake within the wall, cracking the ceiling.

  Shrrp!

  Scorius wipes away the projection. “That is a Knight of Sile, commanding his Bane—the unending storm.”

  “I’ve never seen one.” Boeru shakes away the pain of the chanting. “Never heard such perilous shrieking.”

  “Casterban’s spirits tell us it’s because they hide far above battles, and carry out the will of Sile himself,” Sefene says.

  “Hmph. How would a spirit know that unless they were in league with them?” Dovesier huffs out a spark of lightning.

  “Apparently, one of Casterban’s spirits was,” Sefene admits.

  “And you’re worried about me poisoning him?” I say to Scorius, annoyed.

  “Calm yourself, Dragonborn. You only just arrived. There is much you don’t know.” Scorius limps away.

  “Well, I know that you now have eyes into the afterlife, a place I’ve visited on more than one occasion—”

  “He traverses it well,” Kelfore cackles.

  “Even dared to enter our prison sentence,” Risorgus agrees.

  “Yes, we are aware of your affinities, Dragonborn, we don’t need your audience of cheer masters.” Scorius grumbles.

  “What’s the point of this? You found some obscure oddity of the afterlife. How does that translate to a rebellion?”

  “A breakthrough.” Scorius reaches into a lockbox at the corner of his table and holds up a container with both hands. Winds are visible within it, as is the anger of clawing teeth forming in the vortex. “We found this in the sub-tier of Lacor.”

  The dragons cower at the mere sight of it.

  “Part of the Bane, mortal,” Boe assures.

  “Indeed,” Scorius affirms.

  “Elements of the afterlife? I thought only bonds could come out of it? How?” I ask.

  “We aren’t sure. The working theory is that the kingdomonia’s extreme awakening practices evoked a leak from the afterlife. A Lacor Warlock—similar to a Dane in Miria—couldn’t keep ignoring the signs. Remnants of something dangerous plagued her tier. Most would dismiss her findings as folklore nonsense, and still do. Anomalies like severe spark storms have existed within the realms for centuries, after all. But she persisted. Against her oaths, she reached out to the peace seekers, sighting a magical vortex far out of reach of any Seals, and urged someone with Elden affinity to investigate the anomaly. Following the storm and eventually containing it was no easy task.” Scorius looks to Sefene, who nods back to him. “At the same time, a coalition of spirits rushed from a cracked Seal to seek out your father, warning him of the truth.”

  “What truth?”

  “Sile is oblivion incarnate, and seeks the destruction of all things. Previously kept at bay from the ebbs and flows of the living, it is believed our own malicious ways expanded his appetite. Sile is no longer sated by the wars of the afterlife. He has found a way to transcend existence… much like you have found a way to transcend rank. The living factions seek control of the afterlife, and if one succeeds, the floodgates will open. So he will help them achieve this goal, and begin his destruction of all things.”

  “That’s a harrowing tale.” I clench.

  But it’s still just a tale.

  “Indeed. Thus began Freedom’s Ire… to stop it.”

  “So ever since, my father has been trying to rally for peace,” I surmise.

  “He believes the natural order has been disturbed by the factions’ greed, yes.” Scorius paces, inspecting my dragons. “And if negotiations fail, the only way to prevent cataclysm and preserve the tiers which have been maintained for centuries… is to end the war-tier.”

  “Destroy one tier to save the rest?” I ask.

  “Precisely. It will throw all economic and political stability into chaos, but we would retain our cities.”

  “A mage bomb to cut off our own leg.” I shake my head in awe.

  “A leg poisoned with irreversible Arkitus,” Scorius says.

  “I’ve joined an uprising chasing ghosts, who ignite their own cataclysms.” I eye the contained storm in Scorius’ hand, then raise my gaze to his.

  “To shake the realm’s factions out of their war-torn spells… if it must come to that,” Scorius growls.

  “A vision of a knight.” I gesture toward the rune. “A storm in a bottle.” I gesture toward the container. “A story of an entity no one has seen or suffered…” I raise my arms and let them fall. “It’s not enough. I’m all for peace, Prominent, but a leaked storm is not going to convince me to chase and blow up an entire tier that might have cataclysmic effects all the way down the realm.”

  “Casterban agrees with you. That is why he risks himself on every turn to calm the war naturally, through treaties.”

  “Right… and besides… these are not my wars. I may have been convinced with more time in Elshard. But now that I witnessed some of the disdain, I only wish to save who I’ve lost.”

  “Your purpose is bigger than that, Dragonborn. Don’t be an invalid.” Scorius limps over to me, hunched, expression deadly serious. “The time for theories and what-ifs has ended. Small scale thoughts are no longer permitted. Otherwise, no life will be left to live.”

  I furrow my brow. “What do you mean?”

  “There are no cracked Seals in Lacor, yet a new remnant of Sile’s Bane manifests in their tiers.”

  “How?”

  “You’re going to find out.”