A hot tongue of flame lashes from the fire, striking up at the starry night sky. It is refused by the dark, retreating to its brethren rather quickly. But for a brief moment, it looked as though the fire might’ve reached up and scorched the heavens.

  “It’s your go Raiten,” Saegor says. My attention withers back to the game. The hand I have is so shit this time—four 2s and one 3. Doesn’t help that Saegor started off with his usual annoying tactic of calling low. One 1 he had said. Zyla topped it up with two 1s. Kiren upped the ante to three 4s.

  So I barely have any knowledge at this point.

  I shake the cup around mindlessly before sighing and just making a random call.

  “Five 4s.” Utter bullshit on my part.

  Saegor doesn’t seem to mind it though. “Six 4s.”

  Onto Zyla, who hesitates now—she’s at a crossroads. If she ups it, good chance someone calls bullshit. If she calls though, she calls on Saegor.

  I’m tempted to call on Saegor myself, but there has to be a reason he said six 4s. He might have two, plus however many Kiren has. And there’s a good chance Zyla at least has one. So six is reasonable.

  Seven a little less so, mostly because my hand is ass.

  “Eight 4s,” Zyla calls.

  Kiren stiffens. Saegor whistles.

  If it was three rounds ago, I would be in shock. But now?

  I see the play for what it is: Zyla is stubborn, after all. If she sees an impossible situation, she’s the type to double down on one solution. Even if that solution is wrong.

  “Bullshit.”

  “Stupid bastard Raiten,” she mutters. Everyone reveals their hand.

  Saegor was lying. He didn’t have a single 4. So overall, we had five 4s between us. I curse myself silently for not calling him out on it—but his face is too unreadable.

  Zyla downs a vial quick-like before addressing me.

  “Ask away.”

  I rub my eyes in frustration. But I do at least have one question.

  “What really happened after Kiren and I got knocked out during the fight with the Lady?”

  Her eyes scrunch up. “You mean the spear? I thought someone told you. Saegor just locked that thing up in a pocket dimension. It's dealt with.”

  She answered that quickly, belaying my sneaking suspicion that Saegor did something else with the spear. My mind still ponders what happened to Sadai’s spirit but I have other, more pressing worries now.

  I don’t really have a question for her anymore, despite having at least 20 seconds left. Time ticks away.

  “You gonna let her off free like that Raiten? I thought you wanted to play,” Saegor taunts.

  “Shut up, I’m thinking.”

  A fin taps my shoulder. “Can I ask a question?”

  Saegor tilts his head at Umbrahorn. “No. You aren’t playing after all, right shark?”

  “Motherfuc—fine. Raiten listen…” Umbrahorn proceeds to whisper in my ear. I feared he might’ve come up with some useless query, but it actually makes sense.

  I probably only have five seconds left, but it's worth trying anyway: “Umbrahorn says he recognizes the wind spirit hands you use. To be honest, so have I. When did you bond with that spirit?”

  Zyla looks perplexed for a moment. Then, she laughs.

  “Bond? I’m no spirit tamer Raiten.”

  Umbrahorn and I look at each other dumbly. She sighs.

  “I’m a spirit slaver. Big difference.”

  Time is probably up. Yet I prod anyway, since she doesn’t seem to mind this topic.

  “That difference being…?”

  “Bonding takes a lot of time and a lot of effort. Plus, you can only bond with so many spirits. I’m technically bonded to a few spirits as well, but the majority of my spirits are slaves. I’ve beaten them in battle and binded them with magicks. It allows me to have more spirits in my arsenal than just a tamer—though they can be bitter bastards and they do fight worse than bonded spirits.”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  “How many do you have?” Umbrahorn asks. I expect him to be angry about this, but on the face of it, he seems rather calm. Then again, Umbrahorn is a self-proclaimed ‘racist’ spirit so I doubt he cares much for all of spirit-kind.

  She shrugs. “About 500.”

  I stiffen. “Surely you mean 5?”

  “No. 500.”

  “Alright, then respectfully, what the fuck?!? Why have you not used your army of spirits to just decimate these heavens-foresaken briars?”

  Zyla shares a glance with Saegor and Kiren.

  “Did… none of us tell you of the plan?”

  I groan. “Sometimes you lot seem to forget I’m not part of your original trio.”

  “Well, it’s like you’re the most talkative type. But still, I thought that Pamela told you of the—”

  “She knew the basics of it,” Saegor interrupts. “But the plan has changed. Our trek through the briars took a little longer than expected. Now, they are probably already at the end of the Glades. And, they’ll be expecting us. However,” he rubs his hands together manically while leaning forward. “There’s a reason Pamela sent us alone. And a big part of that reason is Zyla. We’re not just a troop, Raiten. We’re a fucking army.”

  He gives me an evil smile. “Remember how I was able to revive that spirit horse in front of you, back when we first met? I can do the same for other spirits, at least twice before they become useless. So, our army isn’t just 500, but rather, 1500.”

  “And that brings me to my point: where has this army been the entire—”

  “I have to save my magicks for the real battle, Raiten,” Zyla answers. “I didn’t want to risk running so low on reserves that I couldn’t summon our full force on the day of. It takes a lot out of me to command and direct so many spirits”

  I see. That makes more sense I guess. Still, there’s a lingering bitterness to only having found this out just now.

  She also deflected your original question about the wind spirit hands. I’ll have to ask her about them after this though—focus on nailing Saegor here.

  I nod at her explanation. And the game continues.

  This round drags. I start off slow, imitating Saegor’s tactic. Everyone else seems to follow that crawling pace—numbers drag on to the depths.

  Until I am at a crossroads. Kiren called seven 6s. I doubt there’s that many between us based on our previous calls, but I don’t want to call bullshit on him; I want to call it on Saegor.

  The one-eyed mancer watches me squirm. My foot taps. I scratch at the bandages that cover my missing, regenerating arm.

  It's a little performative, but I want Saegor to think I’m trying to play him so that he doesn’t call me.

  “Eight 6s.”

  Saegor yawns. “Bullshiiiiiiiit.”

  I sigh. He hands me one of the last two vials. As I grab onto it, he holds tight to the nob for a moment:

  “These last two were my more successful tests. So they last about a minute each.”

  All the more reason to get him on the next one. I nod and take the vial from him, opening it up and chugging it down.

  “How many times has Thraevirula visited your dreams, Raiten?”

  I stiffen. Why ask this now?

  Zyla and Kiren lean forward, and even Umbrahorn pops out of the ground.

  “Four times directly, I think.”

  “Has she tried making a contract with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you taken it?”

  “No.” If that’s his angle, then it won’t work—

  “Have you considered taking it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  My tongue flogs my teeth. I grimace. “She offered me Masaru.”

  “I see, I see. But there’s more to that isn’t there?”

  “What are you trying to get at—”

  “Are you in love with the witch Raiten?”

  Silence reigns for a few precious seconds.

  Then, I bark out a laugh. “Are you kidding me?”

  Saegor just stares, waiting for my answer.

  “Of course I don’—I don’t—” my mouth clamps shut. My jaw tightens to the point of nearly cramping. What the in the hells?

  No. That doesn’t make sense. It shouldn’t.

  After all, the only person I’m even close to in that sort of regard is…

  …

  Sorina:

  I sneeze.

  Riddeck gives me a side-glance as we walk along the ramparts. “That bad?”

  “No, I think it went well. We got to an… understanding eventually.”

  “I see. Did you ask her about Raiten—”

  “No.” The tone I inject into that is deadly sharp, but he just stares at me unamused.I sigh. “If I did, we wouldn’t have come to an understanding.”

  “I see.” I try setting us back to a walking pace, but he lingers. His face is scrunched in that weird soldierly visage of emotion—the look of a stoic, indifferent, and quiet man trying to desperately think of advice he can give. My father often made the same look.

  “Do you—do you want to talk about it?”

  Yes.

  “No. We have other things to worry about.”

  “Right.”

  He strides to catch up to me, his spear jostling against his plating. A bright blue light suddenly envelops the fortress and from the sparsely clouded sky, comes the gaze of the angelic moon. Its azure banishes whatever darkness the stars could not fight off.

  I stare at it for a moment, unthinking, before shaking my head and moving forward.