I see them wriggling under my skin. I feel them eating my flesh. I lose the sensation of control that my brain sought over my hand.

  So this is how it feels.

  This is their plague, their parasitic control.

  My arm tenses so wildly that it extends away, as if trying to escape me. And the other worms in the mud now close in, seeking to burrow into my legs.

  They are swallowed. In one big muddy gulp, Umbrahorn takes their number into his jaw and crunches down, biting furiously.

  One problem dealt with.

  The second problem worsens.

  I have to work fast. Sticking the whip handle in my mouth, I wrap the rope around my wrist and tighten till the hand goes ghost white and the blood all halts while the worms continue to tunnel their way through the knuckles.

  The whip handle muffles my screams.

  “Raiten! What do I do what I do—” Umbrahorn panics, his tail swishing rapidly.

  I spit the handle out and sink to my knees, yelling some more.

  “EAT IT!”

  “What–”

  “EAT MY FUCKING HAND UMBRAHORN!”

  Umbrahorn hesitates. His jaw opens wide, but he can’t seem to bring it down on me for some hells forsaken reason.

  “Remember how I beat the shit out of you—”

  That does it.

  His sharp teeth clamp around my wrist and, rather than pull, they grind into it, like a saw. His jaw works back and forth and the sensation is just blinding pain.

  White fury makes me squirm. My body reflexively tries pulling away, which only increases the hurt. Blood gushes and spits from the wrist as the wooden teeth rip along the bone, snapping and cracking until finally, Umbrahorn tugs away. I let out another scream, this one not even sounding like me. It sounds like a mule blaring against the pull of his master, knowing that he’s being put down.

  Blood rains. Reigns supreme.

  You’ve been through worse. You’ve been through worse. I have to keep repeating that to stay awake. To endure it.

  Another voice calls. I don’t hear what they say at first, for all goes deaf through the pain and my vision blurs through a slate of tears. But they come closer, all but screaming at us.

  “Spit it out! Spit it out and heal him spirit!”

  A few seconds later, green goo wars with the bloody end of my stump, seeping into the skin. The pain persists, but lessens slightly. Numbs.

  My breathing steadies. Sweat wrings through my uniform.

  Umbrahorn keeps the stream of vomit steady on my wrist. His eyes peer apologetically into mine.

  I nod slowly.

  “It’s—it’s working.”

  “Now, let’s see what we have here,” the voice calls again. It's Saegor, who holds in his hand… my hand.

  Kiren and Zyla are pulling up at a run too. Which means we won.

  It is nauseating to look at my hand—for the worms still wriggle through the skin, making small humps as they peruse the flesh.

  Saegor lifts the hand to his face.

  And bites into it.

  I throw up into the mud. Saegor ignores my condition, delightfully taking another bite into my palm. He spits out some skin, before biting a third and final time. Then, he works his mouth, and smiles.

  Between his teeth are the two worms, gored in my blood, still writhing. He spits one out into his hand and, turning his head up to the sky, starts chewing on the other one.

  “What in the hells are you doing?” Umbrahorn asks, evidently out of vomit. He did enough though. I can finally see again. And though the pain persists, it is bearable. Plus my stump is no longer gushing with blood.

  Saegor holds up a finger, chewing thoughtfully on the worm for a few seconds before swallowing. No hesitation. No shudder even. As if he’s having a normal breakfast.

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  He levels a black-and-red smile at both of us, holding the remaining worm pinched between his thumb and index finger.

  “I think I finally understand how this thing works now.”

  I try thinking of a response to that.

  The best I can do is to throw up once again.

  …

  “Your immortal flesh was the key to understanding it, Raiten. I had to do a lot of sampling, but nothing else came close to helping me analyze what our resident witch has done,” he elaborates, his hands animatedly moving about the campfire.

  Kiren sits next to me, wrapping my stump in bandages. It's grown back slightly already, but I suspect it’ll take till next morning to fully regenerate. Even Zyla gives me some sympathy tonight, having handed me some healing ointment to apply earlier.

  “Great,” I groan as Kiren makes a particularly tight wrap-around. “How does it work?”

  Saegor leans over and rubs his hands together excitedly, as if trying to create a new fire. Then, the hands come apart and he holds them both up.

  He closes one fist. “This plague is not the first iteration of the disease she spreads. It began in Grettleberg a little more than a decade ago.”

  Grettleberg. The name strikes a chord, but I struggle to remember it. Until, the village doctor’s harrowed face comes to mind, and Lucian’s frantic remembrance of his childhood echoes. He too mentioned that Grettleberg saw a similar plague, caused by a witch. No doubt Thraevirula’s work then.

  “Now, the difference is striking,” Saegor continues, pointing a finger up and reckoning it at us like a teacher trying to will the knowledge into his students. “That disease was airborne. And, it caused very few, very meek transformations. But, it was quite good at killing people with rotten growths.”

  “So why didn’t she keep airborne?” Kiren asks. He bites off the final wrapping of the bandage and ties it through. I wiggle my stump. It hurts when I move it. Kiren gives it a light slap—some finishing gesture to keep the bandage in place.

  Pain spikes.

  I glare at him and he winces back, whispering a light sorry.

  To my surprise, Zyla actually chuckles at this.

  “It's a good question,” Saegor says, roping us back into the topic at hand. “My theory is this: the current plague works in two ways. It spreads by touch and it spreads by worms. Now, anyone I’ve seen that’s touched by the plague often just gets the same rotten growths of the Grettleberg plague. Those kill slowly. But… anyone who gets worms in their skin,” he trails with a chuckle. “Well…”

  “They turn into monsters,” I finish for him.

  “Exactly. But that’s not what confounded me. I wanted to understand the magicks behind it—why do those who get turned suddenly grow spiderlike legs, or amphibian feet? Or mantis claws or scorpion tails or any number of the extra appendages we’ve seen throughout these briars?”

  He smiles. The teeth shine in the orange light of the fire, like a djinn’s fangs gleaming in the sun. Reminds me of Baroth.

  “The worms are host to the souls of these animals.”

  The fire crackles and stirs a scattering of sparks that blink up into the star-blanketed sky.

  Saegor waits, seemingly expecting a gasp or some clapping to accompany his revelation.

  Instead I ponder and ponder, and a question comes to mind.

  The most obvious one of course.

  “How?”

  He scoffs. “Quite the loaded question. Which how? How does she import the souls of bugs into other bugs? How do they transmit their souls unto us? How do their limbs emerge at ten times the proportion to their original size?”

  I open my mouth to respond, but he continues. “I can’t answer those questions. I’m not an expert in plague matters. But I can tell you that she only uses bits of the souls. And I can tell you that there's more than just soul magicks at play. Ahhh,” he shakes his head in solemn respect. “She’s quite the master of this.”

  “You got all of that from eating a bunch of dead worms and flesh and indulging in some Raiten-cannibalism?” Umbrahorn asks. He startles me actually. Didn’t hear him pop up next to us—thought he was still patrolling.

  “Don’t underestimate my own magicks. After all I’m the one who tau—” he catches himself. Breathes. “I’m an expert on these matters.”

  I sigh as well, mostly because, just when I thought I could get some actual answers, all else is shrouded in the mystery of magicks. A mystery that has haunted my every step of this journey beyond the Thunder Tower.

  Well, at least I can be privy to another mystery tonight.

  My eyes dart back up to Saegor.

  “Whatever it is you had in mind earlier today, let’s do it.”

  His expression rankles in confusion at first. But then, he barks out a laugh.

  “Really? I thought you wouldn’t have wanted to, with your condition—”

  “I’ve been through worse. Besides, we’re almost out of the woods. Might as well leave our dirty laundry in here, right?”

  “Well said.”

  “Raiten…” Kiren protests, but I shrug off his hand.

  “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

  “Take it easy brother.”

  “I will.”

  I catch Zyla looking thoughtfully at us for a moment before she catches herself, shakes her head, and turns back to Saegor.

  The old man rifles through his pack and takes out a clinking net of green vials. He opens the net and passes them around. Each of us gets two. Then, he takes out a cup with what sounds like a clattering of nuts. Saegor spills them out before him. Dice. Many, many dice.

  “We’re… gambling?” I ask.

  “No, no. Much better,” he mutters, picking up one of the dice and rolling it expertly between his fingers. He catches the dice and holds up to fire.

  “We’re about to find out who we really are.”