“You are… the boy who went to Filose,” Vasran said calmly, forearm pinning Captain Daniels to the wall. The captain grunted, straining to break free. He turned from Luke, disinterested. “Major Fibian. What a surprise to see you again.”

  “Disappointed in your allies?” Aisha asked. “I know the feeling.”

  “Yes. Perhaps we should have taken Cathartes up on their offer.”

  “Their assassins are no good either,” Daniels croaked, smiling.

  A moment, unworthy successor.

  What is it?

  Something is amiss in this room. The flow is disturbed…

  Luke blinked Yellow.

  Vasran was holding a fair amount of Green.

  It’s him, Luke thought. Thanks for the heads up.

  “Then I am afraid I have no choice but to put you down, Fibian,” Vasran said in response to something Luke had missed.

  “I’d like to see you try,” Aisha said threateningly, drawing her two curved knives, twin sheaths hanging from her belt illustrated by a fierce-looking horned scribblesnake. “How about I show you just how much all that armor is worth?”

  Vasran moved blindingly quick. Daniels collapsed behind him.

  Aisha had no idea what was coming. She was going to die.

  Not unless I do something!

  Vasran left the heavy hammer, opting instead for a powerful blow to her gut with a gauntleted fist. Frost crackled as he delivered it.

  She leapt back to create distance, bewildered by his speed— and her lack of pain. Luke stepped in on light feet, exchanging Blue for Red, an invisible crimson liquid light surging into his arm.

  And he punched Vasran in the chest.

  It barely did anything. He dented the plate he struck. The traitorous major slid back a foot on heavy greaves. A painful jolt of electricity burned Luke’s arm as he brought it back.

  But the display was enough to make the man freeze, uncertain.

  “He’s using Green,” Luke warned. “He’s fast. Be careful.”

  “How do you know that?” Vasran asked, baffled. “Who are you?”

  “We’ll take him together,” Daniels said hoarsely, snatching his spear off the floor and rising. He felt at his neck, wincing. “The three of us.”

  “No,” Luke said. “You have something you need to do, captain. You came here for a reason, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Leave this to us,” Luke said. “Get going.”

  As he said the last part, Vasran made a break for his absurdly-sized hammer. Luke weaved Green and met him there, countering the man’s gauntleted backhand with a Blue-coated arm poking out of his cloak, raised like a shield.

  “Hurry!” Luke shouted.

  Daniels’s footsteps echoed in the cavernous room, gold and glamour littering it like a cache of lost treasure buried deep beneath the earth.

  Vasran roared, shoulder-checking Luke. He tried to wrap his whole body in Blue. Spread too thin, it was ineffective, and he went tumbling across the tiled floor.

  “I see. I see now,” Vasran said. He looked… relieved. He grasped his hammer, hefting it. “You possess a natural Kingdom. But you are weak.”

  Aisha drew close, wary.

  “Daniels won’t make it far,” he continued as Luke pushed himself up. A terrible smile spread across Vasran’s face. “How fortuitous of you to bring me such a gift. I will kill you and claim your Kingdom for myself.”

  ———

  Cyrus took a deep breath and burst through the double doors of Central Prison’s entrance, straight-backed and determined. His matted ginger hair and recruit uniform dripped rainwater behind him as he approached the lobby’s front desk.

  The lobby was devoid of people, save for a hunched-over female clerk sitting at the front desk. Rows of chairs crowded the room, dull gray walls decorated by comparatively-bright corkboards tacked with papers regarding missing or wanted persons, electrician service offers, and Guard recruitment ads. Branching off from the lobby were a set of restrooms and two heavy-looking steel doors leading further inside.

  The auburn-haired woman sat behind a fortified wall of sturdy darkwood and glass, eyes down. She was engrossed in a book. Romance, judging by the cover. Her head was supported by a fist, elbow on the desk. She had a crooked smile on her face when Cyrus entered, but it slipped as he asked her if he could see Seras.

  “Visiting hours are over.”

  “It’s important.”

  “Rules are rules,” she said. She flipped to the next page.

  If ever there were a more obvious agent of Rigel… Cyrus cleared his throat, coming closer to the window separating them. He flashed his bracelet at her.

  “We don’t take bribes,” she said, glancing briefly.

  “What?” Cyrus blinked. “Oh, no. I wasn’t offering it to you. It’s Tapera. Look.” He waved his wrist at the window.

  “Fascinating,” she said without checking, eyes scanning her current page. “Come back tomorrow and make an appointment.”

  “Uh…” Cyrus trailed off. The sound of shuffling footsteps echoed behind him. “We’re not really here for that kind of thing. Frankly, I think you’re being a bit abrasive.”

  Her eyebrow twitched. “Sir, we do not do visitation after—”

  And then she looked up. Really looked. And saw about a half-dozen armed soldiers fanning out around Cyrus. That got her attention.

  He folded his arms, feeling indignant. “So? Lieutenant Seras?”

  “I’ll… get the warden,” she said, eyes wide. She shut her book and spun around. She pushed open a hard-to-see door that connected to the space behind the fortified front desk and went running.

  He huffed. Some people.

  ———

  Don’t die, kid, Deen thought, dashing madly down hallways he’d remembered from the time he escorted General Wolf through this place.

  His boots thumped loudly, alerting two guards posted outside the stairwell to his approach. Both of them were fully armored. Flocks, how he wished he had his own set on.

  He skidded to a stop, giving them a good look at his uniform.

  “Captain’s order,” he said, panting. “Stand aside. The city is under attack. Didn’t you hear me? Stand aside!”

  His eyes caught an oddity then, in the dim flickering light of a wall-mounted oil lantern. A cloth armband with a Tapera design tied around one of their pauldrons. He cursed and drew his spear just as they slammed down faceplates and raised broadswords. One of them shouted something up the stairwell about engaging an intruder.

  Intruder? This was his city.

  Blood boiling, he attacked, spear flashing in the lanternlit corridor. He went for the left one’s armpit. His spear pulled back, slick.

  Amateur.

  He pivoted on his feet, putting his weight against the slash of the other soldier’s broadsword. Their weapons clanged. He snaked his spear out of the tangle, then flicked his wrist and jabbed it into the bleeding soldier’s pauldron on the same arm as he tried to counterattack.

  Deen dropped to one knee and ducked, broadsword breezing by overhead. Blood leaked down the shaft, around his fingers. He felt his grip sliding. He tensed his fingers, clinging on by his nails.

  The healthy soldier tried to knee him in the chin, but he pushed backward into a standing position. Panic flooded him as he registered a cluster of soldiers charging down the stairwell. Two. Four.

  The four newcomers weren’t armored, but no man could take on six soldiers at once, no matter what some stories said. The corridor was too wide, he’d be overwhelmed immediately. They wore the uniform of the Guard, but the space where their station would be was left blank.

  The broadsword-wielding pair kept him from turning to flee. It took all his concentration just to keep the spear steady in his hands. And here he’d called this one an amateur, doing something as stupid himself not a minute later.

  Weapons out, the uniformed reinforcements attacked in unison.

  ———

  Vander Wolf marched into the most luxurious room in all of Ulciscor. One of Ren’s personal attendants outside quietly pulled the door shut behind him. Desks and shelves of the finest darkwood, two plush couches, a low glass table inlaid with emerald trim, Shinkaian rugs with eye-catching patterns. Expensive furniture and memorabilia practically littered the room, most of them well-kept relics of a time long past. A profane sight for the city of bulwark.

  The diminutive, rotund mayor of Ulciscor sat in a straight-backed chair hunched over his desk, inspecting a sheaf of bureaucratic reports thick enough to make Vander glad to be general. In the military, he could at least enact his plans before being beset by a mountain of paperwork.

  Maro’s secretary— taller than the mayor by a head and a half— sat on one of the plush couches, clipboard in her hands. She was a reserved, bookish sort, wearing simple reading spectacles. The pale woman held her dark hair up in a bun and wore a high-buttoned cream-colored suit and a long gray skirt. Her name escaped him, but he’d seen her before many times in this office.

  Maro Ren adjusted his rimless oval spectacles and fiddled with the tie of his suit before rising and offering a handshake to Vander. He matched the man’s firmness and held eye contact, a skill Yulania had taught him when he was younger. It was useful, he’d found, in ensuring the other party listened to what you had to say. And he had a lot to say today.

  Neither sat. Vander strolled over to the gargantuan window, looking out upon southern Ulciscor. A darkness blanketed the land, courtesy of storm clouds above. It had been drizzling in fits all day, but now it appeared a steady rain was here to stay, relentless pelting the wide glass pane. Behind the city loomed the impressive Wall of Ulciscor. To his left, beyond the Wall, he could make out a patch blacker than the rest, the cavernous Crack leading to the Sheer Sea and its jagged rocky depths.

  “Shall we start?” he asked Maro, pulling his eyes away.

  Maro raised his eyebrows and pulled a handkerchief from his bulging suit pocket, running it over his balding head. “What of the majors, Vander? They seem to be running late. I’d heard Jorgen arrived, but…”

  “It is no matter.” He shook his head. “The majors will do as we ask. They were only invited to listen. You and I must come to a consensus.”

  “A consensus, you say,” the mayor said, curious. He approached the window from the other end, looking out, smoothing his suit. His brow was already slick again. “Well. We’re not getting any younger standing here, Vander. Have you a strategy in mind for tomorrow’s incursion? I suspect you do. One Ranboc won’t like, I’d imagine, from your tone. Out with it, old boy.”

  He could hear Maro’s secretary begin to scribble with a pen onto that clipboard of hers, transcribing their conversation. To her credit, she didn’t miss a beat and kept writing after hearing what he said next.

  “We should terminate the Agreement.”

  The mayor sputtered. “That’s not a warfare strategy.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  They stared at each other for what felt like a good long while.

  “Override old Ranboc, eh?” Maro finally said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “You always were a bold one. Put an opportunity in front of Vander Wolf and he will seize it. Why ever did you leave the Elites?”

  “It wasn’t right. The things I had to do. What I had to become.”

  “Oh, really,” the mayor said conversationally. “I don’t find it so bad.”

  That was a downright callous thing for him to say. What in the world would he know about—

  Maro Ren was pointing a thunderflute at him.

  ———

  Luke threw off his cloak, leaving himself more flexible in the simple woolen outfit he wore underneath. He’d prefer not to let the cloak Argent had given him be destroyed. Felt inevitable today, but no harm in trying.

  As his cloak fell, Aisha struck. She sliced across Vasran’s back in a gap where two plates of the beastly silver armor met. The traitorous major growled, spinning on her. A gauntleted punch clipped her shoulder, but she expertly twisted away at the angle it had jostled her before he could land a second blow.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Luke tried grabbing the major’s hammer by its long darkwood haft. It didn’t so much as bend or budge. He tried to move it by weaving Red, but it just jolted electricity down his hand painfully, leaving him regretful for even having tried. What was this thing made of?

  He went for a kick to try snapping the wood, but Vasran came in fast, bowling him over. He found his footing with the verdant color of motion and felt his heart leap to his throat as the hammer swung, nearly turning him into something you might find inside a mortar and pestle.

  Aisha didn’t let Vasran maintain his offensive, taking another swipe at the half-Pruinan’s waist. He avoided this one, bringing his hammer around to try it on her.

  Any ideas? Luke asked as she dodged and twisted beautifully against a man twice her size and supernaturally quick. Flocks, she was talented.

  He wove invisible emerald light, ready to run more interference. Distracting Vasran could give Aisha a chance to come up with a way to win. There had to be a way to win.

  You are going to be defeated unless you overcome your mental block.

  Luke sighed. He was afraid of that.

  ———

  The rankless-uniform soldiers descended the stairwell, weapons drawn, and attacked.

  Attacked the armored guards.

  Deen backed away, spear slipping through his bloody fingers, bewildered. Two broadswords clattered to the floor, their wielders twisting and screaming as metal dug into the gaps between their plates.

  He wiped his hands on his trousers, adjusting his grip. He blinked a bead of sweat out of his eyes.

  Two of the soldiers approached, blades dripping crimson.

  “Wait,” one of them said, hand raised. She was a hard-faced woman with a scar across her cheek. “This one has no armband.”

  “He was fighting them,” one of the rankless said from behind her, a man who didn’t look a day over twenty. “I saw it from the steps.”

  “So Bartman says,” the other soldier up front said in an accented voice almost as thick as his mustache. He glanced at the woman. “What about you? What do you make of him?”

  “Bartman has sharp eyes,” she said, wiping a cloth along the length of her blade and sheathing it. She had the same accent, Deen noticed. Not as easy to pick out, but there it was. “It’s why we keep him around.”

  “Who are you people?” Deen asked, impatient. He whipped his spear around to a defensive position. “Are you with Mirastelle or against it?”

  “We fight for the flag of House Wolf,” the young man said, arms folded. Bartman, was it? “Nothing more, nothing less.”

  Huh? House? Like the noble houses of old?

  “Knock it off,” a voice said, echoing. Up the stairs appeared a wrinkly woman dressed in a rankless uniform, steel-gray hair tied back in a bun.

  “Madam Yulania, we found this man fighting Rigel’s minions,” the mustached man said, gesturing to Deen. “What are your orders?”

  “So there are some men in the Ulciscor Guard with brains,” the elderly woman said. She gave a crooked smile and pointed at him. “You. Soldier. What’s your name?”

  “Captain Deen Daniels.” He was going to use that title for all its clipping worth until somebody in charge finally got around to a court-martial and slipped a noose around his neck.

  “You’re with us, captain.”

  Two armored soldiers suddenly flanked the woman named Yulania atop the stairs and whispered something to her. More of those rankless, he suspected. She made a hand signal and they left.

  “And what exactly is it that you’re all doing?”

  “Liberation. Pest control.” Yulania shrugged. “Call it whatever you like. We are going to plow straight through as many of these armband-wearing fools as it takes to reach General Wolf. Any questions, captain?”

  A dozen, but now was not the time. Deen shook his head and slung his spear over his back.

  “Let’s be about it,” she said.

  ———

  “If that’s all…” the auburn-haired woman said, flustered. “Well. You know. My shift is over, so… I’ll be going now…”

  “Yes, thank you,” the warden said, waving her off and out the door. She picked her way carefully past Velox’s friends from the Southwest Wall. Distantly, Cyrus heard her pick up speed outside.

  Bald Tadil and the heavyset woman in the wool coat— Madeline, her name was— stood on each side of Cyrus. A handful of casually dressed battle-hardened men stood at attention, staring holes in the uniformed prison soldiers ringing the warden. Hands weren’t on hilts, but they were awfully close. This could turn sour fast.

  “To what do I owe this irregular visit from fellow guardsmen?” the warden asked, eyeing the whole lot of them. The warden was a pot-bellied man, buttons on his uniform coat straining to contain him. He had a thick walrus mustache and an itchy scalp, rubbing it with the knuckle studs of his gloves. He cleared his throat and settled on the man next to Cyrus. “I recognize you. Lieutenant Tadil. What is this all about? What are you all doing here out of uniform?”

  “Does this mean anything to you?” Cyrus said, showing him the Tapera bracelet.

  “Afraid not, son,” the warden said, frowning.

  Tadil and Cyrus shared a nod. “We’re here on behalf of Captain Quinn Velox,” Tadil said. “Lieutenant Seras is in a dangerous situation, and we’d like to move her for the time being.”

  “Lieutenant Seras is, unfortunately, one of the prisoners I am charged with. Were she one of my staff, I’d be happy to lend her to you. This is the safest place for her.”

  “Normally, maybe. But you’re understaffed. No lobby guards when we came in,” Tadil noted. “Lot of no-shows today?”

  The warden knuckled his mustache. “What is it you’re getting at, Lieutenant?”

  “The Guard has fractured,” Tadil said. “Major Cade turned traitor, and quite a few others besides. The captain they’ve accused of those murders at the Wall is back. Cade tried to use his family against him. Velox and this boy put an end to that. Seras is next.”

  “You understand how this looks, don’t you Lieutenant?” the warden asked. “You’ve all but admitted you’re in league with a man accused of some very heinous crimes. Have you evidence?”

  Tadil looked to Cyrus.

  “By the time we get it to you, it’ll be too late.” He held up the bracelet again. “They identify each other with symbols of the Tapera Flock. Their ringleader is Mammon Rigel. They’ve been hiding in the city.”

  “I asked for evidence, son, not assertions.” He glanced at his soldiers, and as Cyrus feared, hands went to hilts. “You must leave, all of you. I am willing to overlook this if you leave peacefully. If Cade demands Seras from us, we will hand her over. We serve General Wolf and the majors, not this ragtag group of yours. I won’t jeopardize the law and order of Ulciscor on words alone.”

  ———

  Vasran’s hammer crunched through a white pillar and slammed down on a tile. A cloud of marble dust and fragmentary debris swirled behind him as he advanced on Aisha. He hefted the hammer with both hands, grunting with exertion.

  What an absurdly strong man. It was as if though he held Red.

  He does not, Mergule said. Another false Weaver, like that human you fought in Filose. He is not linked to one of my kind.

  That means he can run out, Luke thought. His hand was tight around a small dagger, given to him by one of Linden’s soldiers. Like Dux did.

  Aisha dodged the next smash with nimble footwork, then dove forward for a counterattack. Guided by Green, Luke rounded Vasran, trying to pincer him from behind at the same time. He eyed a space between armor plating in the underarm area.

  His angle was off, glancing metal. Aisha’s buried one of her knives underneath one of his pauldrons as he deflected the other— aimed at his neck— with a raised arm. He tried to kick her away, knife still wedged inside his armor, but she backed away before it could connect.

  The major swung at Luke, missing. They circled him, ready to pounce again as he swiveled his head between them. Attention divided, Aisha found an opportunity to take another swipe at him— narrowly evaded.

  Vasran’s gaze darted back and forth between his assailants. He dropped his hammer with a crash, expertly twisting his bulky body and slamming his arms two different ways. Luke cursed, weaving threads of liquid light through the air to shield them.

  Too late. Both attacks connected, one of Aisha’s knives scraping across the gauntlet ineffectively as it pounded her in the chest. Luke took his in the face. As they created space to try and recover, he put a hand to his mouth and came away with blood running down his nose.

  I need to weave Green… he thought, dizzy.

  No! Mergule snapped. Blue, now!

  Too slow for either. Another fist to the jaw knocked him flat, and he felt himself rolling. Sharp pieces of broken tiles jabbed him underneath as he knocked into a pillar, coming to a stop. From the corner of his eye he saw Vasran set his hammer for a swing, charging Aisha.

  Please, he thought to the threads, raising a limp hand, directing as many as he could muster to her aid.

  Dazed as he was, it was a miracle he got the Blue threads in the correct position to match the hammer’s trajectory. But even so, despite how much he packed into her side— enough for her body to glow in normal sight— the monstrous weapon crunched right through the barrier, surely shattering ribs and who-knows-what-else, launching her back-first into a pillar. She cried out, dropping like a puppet with its strings cut.

  No…

  He scrambled to his feet, vision blurring. He weaved Magenta into her, for all the good it would do. His thunderflute wound pulsed angrily as he did it, losing some of its numbing strength.

  Aisha did not get up. Her chest still rose and fell, but the light had left her vacant eyes. She was dying.

  Vasran set his hammer down, then pulled out the knife from underneath his pauldron. He frowned at it and flung it to the other end of the room. Luke lost sight as it fell somewhere behind a gaudy, silvery table and matching set of padded chairs.

  He poured more Magenta into her, stumbling toward Vasran. More and more, so much that her side began glowing faintly to normal sight.

  Stop. Mergule. You are taking too great a risk.

  What do I care about that?

  You are opening yourself up to too much pain.

  Jorgen Vasran noticed him then, one hand resting on his hammer.

  “You’re still standing?” he asked, awed. “If a natural Kingdom can do this for a child, I can scarcely imagine the power it will grant me.”

  Luke gazed up at him, eyes watering from the pain. A monstrous man with a hulking hammer to match. He was fooling himself. There was never any way to win this fight.

  Vasran was right. He was a child playing with powers he barely understood. Without them, he was nothing.

  So much pain. Too much to bear. His wound burned. No, his whole body burned. He could feel it worst across his back…

  ———

  The sight of Maro Ren holding that thunderflute was surreal, like seeing an upside-down house or a longsword with two hilts. Some sights were just wrong, as if witnessing something out of a nightmare.

  “Oh yes, this was worth the risk. That face. That face!”

  What face? Maro had a twisted grin on his.

  “Did you think the role of Ulciscor’s conqueror was never up for grabs after your betrayal all those years ago? The Fifth Elite failed Amon, so he turned to the Sixth.”

  “Mammon Rigel is the Sixth Elite,” he choked out.

  “And Maro Ren,” he said, pointing at himself, “didn’t exist a decade ago. It’s a disguise. A fabrication. Come now old boy, I even used the same initials. I was practically begging to be caught.”

  “You were elected.”

  “By the idiot masses of Mirastelle. We barely sabotaged it, you know. It was almost a completely legitimate process. These Ulciscor people think like a hive of ringwasps. A single-minded penchant for violence.”

  “We’re not getting invaded tomorrow,” Vander whispered.

  “No, my friend.” Maro laughed. “It’s tonight.”

  “My majors…”

  “Already dealt with. Cade and Vasran belong to me. Linden and Fibian are dead. What was it you said? You wanted to terminate the Agreement? Absolutely. Let’s do it. Sounds great.”

  It… was over. Terra Daeva would flood into Mirastelle and utterly overwhelm Lumina before they even knew what was happening. It was over, and he only knew it because Maro had the indecency to laugh in his face about it. A nightmare awake.

  “Oh, these expressions really are fantastic. You all said I was galed for wanting to have a little fun with him. But look at this. Come on. Look.”

  Vander blinked numbly. The secretary. He was talking to his secretary. That woman was still transcribing? She glanced at him.

  “He does look rather vexed,” she said, monotone.

  “Bah.” He waved his free hand dismissively. “Levian would get it.”

  “Those things aren’t guaranteed,” Vander said, warily eyeing the thunderflute. “I could take a bolt and gut you with my belt knife.”

  “You very well could,” Maro said, wagging a finger. “But I suspect you would have done it already. You know the futility. Frankly, I think you’re worried about not dying in a moment.”

  He was. How deep did Amon’s grudge run? All of the Elites were turning out to be completely absurd psychopaths. What did that say about Amon, the one who picked them? What did that say about himself?

  Forget it. Far too late to do anything about Amon. Part of being a military tactician was learning when to cut your losses and salvage what you could from a defeat. It wasn’t much, and it was a long shot, but he really should just rush this Bane-cursed sadist and take his chances.

  The world was better off without them. Both of them. Him and Mammon, nothing but two old men playing with people like toys.

  “Is that it, then?” Vander spread his arms. “Congratulations, Maro. Mammon. Asundria is yours, clipping bastard. Enjoy your prize.”

  “Not quite yet. There’s one last face of yours I want to see.”

  “My city is overrun, my country is doomed, and I’m about to die a miserable dog’s death. What more do you want out of me?”

  Mammon fished a pocket watch out, holding it up to read the time without taking his eyes off Vander.

  “Fifty-five seconds,” he said, replacing it.

  “Until what?”

  “The highlight. The sum of your life, Vander Wolf.” He paused. “You know, I think you’re the first person to be… what would you call this? Held at knifepoint… flutepoint? Nobody has ever had one thrown in their face, knowing what it was. That will change in the coming days. We are mass-producing them.”

  “I noticed.”

  “You did, didn’t you?” Mammon cackled. “His Majesty changes the very nature of warfare. It will never be the same. But did you know, old boy, that you can do something else with boltpowder?”

  He opened his mouth to ask what.

  And the fifty-fifth second passed.

  The Wall of Ulciscor, standing proud, lining the view of that wide glass pane, vanished in a brilliant flash of white and orange and black.

  ———

  Luke’s back burned. A terrible heat, searing him to cinders.

  “You must have used Blue to shield yourself,” Vasran said. “Looks like you’re about finished, though.”

  The burning sensation was too much. So painful. He wanted to curl up and stop thinking, stop feeling. Become numb.

  But he hadn’t shielded himself, had he?

  He’d taken the punch and tumbled, but he stood back up.

  He’d endured those terrible flames so very long ago. He burned in his childhood home, trapped in safety. For hours and hours and hours and hours and hours, searing and scarring Luke until he couldn’t even cry, but every day since, he found the strength to stand anew.

  That wasn’t a special ability.

  That was who he was.

  He didn’t need a color to face his fears.

  He just had to grit his teeth and try.

  “I was afraid,” Luke whispered, pressing a fist against his heart. Feeling it beat. Feeling heat. Warmth. Life. “Of what I could do.”

  Electricity crackled around him.

  Are you sure?

  Tears rolled down his cheeks.

  “Flocks, kid.” Vasran lifted the hammer. “I’ll make it quick.”

  He nodded.

  Vasran swung.

  And Luke caught it, bursting aflame.