It was as though a thousand thunderclaps sounded at once. Right then, everything shook. The UCB itself vibrated, quivering in fear of what had been done. Mammon Rigel swayed, nearly losing his balance.

  The bookish secretary stood, clipboard and pen tossed aside.

  And Vander, unsteady, drew his belt knife and went running for the evil bastard’s throat. He let his rage guide him. He knew that if he let his rational mind take over, he would never find the strength to rise again.

  A bolt took him in the shoulder. He fed it to his fury. Something tripped him. He roared, tackling the diminutive man. The thunderflute bounced out of his hands, spinning across a Shinkaian rug.

  “Help! Help me, you fool!” Mammon shrieked. “Stop him!”

  Vander raised the knife high, then something slammed into them both, separating them. The knife tumbled from his fingers across the room, and he looked to see where the thunderflute had landed.

  The thunderflute’s bolt chamber had fallen open, bolts rolling across the rug and floor tiles. He closed his hand around the metallic weapon, but something unseen kicked him away with great force. He came away with nothing but a lone bolt, slamming against the wall with a groan.

  “He’s your problem,” the bookish woman said dismissively. Her eyes grew wild, crazed. Her lips hung open, curved up as if in ecstasy. “At last you come. My prey.”

  The window shattered. Through it dove a figure fast as a bolt, landing in a crouch. The figure stood, wrapped in bandages from head to toe and draped in a dark green cloak that rippled in the open air.

  Mammon scrambled past, snatching up the thunderflute and swiping a bowler hat off his desk. He looked at his secretary.

  “Can’t you at least—”

  The fat little man yelped, jumping almost a foot as the door to his office burst apart, darkwood splinters and chunk-sized projectiles volleying the hallway. Mayoral attendants shouted in confusion.

  “Crazy wingless witch!” Mammon babbled, hand pressing hat to head, scurrying out the blasted doorway. “Make sure he dies! And leave me something to rule! Flocks Above! You, pick him up! Up, up, all of you, before she blows us all to kingdom come! This way! This way!”

  He could hear Mammon and his attendants fleeing down the corridor. Vander struggled to stand and go after him, but something held fast to his waist, as if there were an invisible rope around him.

  “What is this!” he bellowed. “Let go out of me!”

  “Stay down and shut up,” the bandaged man snapped in a strange, distorted voice. “And you just might live.”

  The secretary— witch?— spread her arms wide. Then, her entire appearance changed. Undulating bands of golden light swept down her figure, revealing an entirely different woman. Curling jet-black hair spilled down her back. Her spectacles vanished, green eyes gleaming like emeralds. Lips painted purple twisted in an open-mouthed smile. She was dressed in a shoulderless tri-color ball gown and matching cuffed sleeves like the noblewomen of old. The neckline was daringly low, designed to flaunt her ample bosom.

  As a former prince of the Wolf family, he’d seen his fair share of gowns, and this one was an immaculate sight compared to the those he remembered. Made of spiralsilk, patterns of purple and black mixed together like the hues of a twilight sky, trimmed at the hem and cuffs by the golden day.

  Ribbons of ethereal golden light danced around the woman. Her black heels clicked on the tiled floor as she advanced on them. She raised her arms high, palms spinning as if she were a conductor. The golden ribbons pulled taut, threading into a violently bright blade of light.

  Bandages moved, flinging his arms out. A different sort of brightness coalesced between his palms. A flashing see-through sphere, vaguely green in tint. A strong wind blew in through the shattered glass, sending loose papers and discarded bolts flying. As the man pressed his palms closer together— grunting, as if straining with effort— the force of that wind intensified. The sphere became less transparent, more translucent.

  A tiny dome, barely perceptible, surrounded himself and Bandages. Heavier objects like books and various knick-knacks gifted to the mayor over the years slammed against it to no avail. A jar of ink flipped around and splashed across it, running down the length of the invisible dome.

  Everything was shaking, worse than when the Wall had exploded. Vander stared, transfixed. He had expected to die, then go to the afterlife. Not the other way around.

  The witch screamed, blade of celestial light held high above her head lengthening into a jousting lance and beyond, ripping through the ceiling. Chunks of stone tumbled and bounced off her head and shoulders without leaving so much as a scratch. The walls splintered and broke apart, vibrating, enduring forces they were not built to withstand.

  Lines of light spiderwebbed their invisible dome. Cracks. Bandages fell to one knee, belting out his own warped, ragged shout. Wind roared.

  The witch’s scream crescendoed as she brought the light of the heavens down upon them, and the world blanked white.

  ———

  An inferno enveloped Luke’s body as he reached out, catching the hammer with both hands. He met the bulky thing with near-equal force, canceling its momentum. Vasran’s eyes widened in horror as he pressed his palms together, warping the weapon’s shape, shouting with exertion.

  He tore it from Vasran’s grip and flung it sideways. It crashed through a vase and rolled awkwardly across a table, ripping its way across the silvery surface. It kept going until it smashed into one of the matching chairs, knocking it down, snapping the back off.

  His whole body burned, and he accepted it. Fear and power surged through him like lightning through a conduit. Tattoos appeared on his skin, racing down his arms. Across his whole body, it felt like. They were of a simple design, swirls of shades ranging from dark crimson to a vibrant orange. He felt the patterns and colors shifting even as he stood still. The flames receded as the tattoos materialized, but the burning and the fear and the power remained.

  He’d lost his dagger somewhere, so he put his dukes up.

  “I’ll die trying,” Vasran said, raising his own gauntleted fists in challenge. What he’d mistaken for as horror in the half-Pruinan’s expression was… hunger. Ravenous hunger. “It’s worth it. I must have this. It’s wasted on you.”

  Somewhere distant, the loudest clap of thunder he’d ever heard sounded. That didn’t sound natural. The entire room shook. Vases shattered, chairs fell over. Ornaments fell from shelves, fragmenting.

  “He has done it,” Vasran laughed. “The city is ours! The Wall falls!”

  What happened?

  The Wall… falls? A pit formed in Luke’s stomach.

  Something terrible is happening above us! Mergule cried.

  The room began to shake again, worse than before. Aisha slumped over, head knocking against the tiles. The ceiling cracked above her, above them all. Vasran took a swing at him while he was distracted, but he managed to avoid it in time, nearly losing his balance. He released Red— the transformation persisted— and weaved Green, coming down on solid footing. He ducked a punch, jumped a sweeping kick, and slid under another punch, coming to a crouch between her and him.

  The ceiling chose that moment to collapse, a blinding white light piercing through the gaps as the rocks fell, the room quaking something fierce. He pulled Aisha up from behind and pressed against the pillar she’d fallen at, cloaking their heads and shoulders with as much Blue as he could manage.

  Aisha nudged him weakly. She gestured covertly to her belt. To one of the knives. He unsheathed it, slipping it into his clothes.

  Vasran made no move for cover. While Luke had his hands full with Aisha, the man slipped a glowing blue ampule from his pocket and jabbed it into his neck. He drained it, tossing it aside as a chunk of stone bashed into his exposed head. Even with a helm, one of that size may have been enough to kill him instantly. Instead, it did nothing, crumbling on the floor.

  Luke blinked Yellow. It was as he feared. He’d missed his chance to finish this quickly, for Jorgen Vasran now controlled two colors.

  ———

  Deen twirled his spear, boots thumping down the hallway. He gave the Tapera armband-wearing soldier in his path the meanest mug he could muster before running him through.

  The rankless underling of that Yulania woman— the one with the mustache— nodded to Deen in thanks and picked his blade up off the floor. That had nearly been the man’s death.

  They were maybe halfway across the seventh floor to the final staircase, making poor time in the face of so many foes. There seemed no end to Rigel’s infiltrators. They’d split into two groups, one armored rankless leading each. He still had no idea who they even were.

  He reacted slowly to a door opening to his left. A spectacled clerk rushed out, knife raised. The clerk was accompanied by two members of the Guard— low-ranking Southwest Wall, by the markings of their uniforms. Certainly no business being here in the Council Building, but the armbands they wore already told such a story.

  By the time he registered that dull-eyed clerk as a threat, the cheek-scarred woman had acted accordingly, batting away the knife aimed at Deen’s neck with an expert forearm push, burying her own steel inside the man.

  Deen cursed, stepping around her to parry the guard’s incoming spear. She got out from in front, stepping aside as he traded a scrape across his shoulder in exchange for cutting open the attacker’s neck.

  He twisted out of the way of the second guard’s saber, and the scarred woman forced him to block her attack, giving Deen the opening he needed to put down the second guard. It wasn’t clean, and the woman had to kick the recoiling man over and finish the job. Crusted blood on her sleeves mixed with a fresh coating.

  Making sure they had the attention of the mustached and armored rankless, Deen pushed into the room the trio of assailants had come from. Inside was just an office, perhaps belonging to some politician, devoid of any more surprises. He hadn’t really taken the time to examine it beyond that. Now was not the time for a breather, no matter how brief.

  The three rankless accepted his assessment at face value and off they marched to their next battle.

  At least, that was the plan until everything exploded.

  ———

  “Don’t be a stubborn fool!” wool-coated Madeline shouted.

  “You’ve ground my patience to a nub,” the warden said. He raised a hand. “Men, I am giving the order. Remove these—”

  The ground and the air itself shook. Papers pegged to corkboards on the wall flapped. Windows rattled, one even cracking. Everyone grabbed at chairs or walls to stay upright. Furniture toppled.

  The moment passed. Cyrus looked around. Nobody was hurt. What in Asundria was that?

  Lyla Daniels ran in from outside, breathing hard.

  “Something has happened to the Wall,” she said feverishly. “It’s… it’s aflame. In pieces. They’ve destroyed it. Flocks Above, it’s gone. The Wall of Ulciscor is gone.”

  The warden waved off one of his protesting comrades and pushed past Cyrus and Tadil. No one spoke, concern plastered on every face in the room. Both groups, antagonistic mere minutes before, shuffled out the door. One by one, they joined the rest of Velox’s allies waiting outside the prison and saw that Lyla spoke true.

  Rain pelted Cyrus as he gawked at the terrible sight. It was worse than anything he remembered from the Razing of Altair. How many people had been inside the Walls just now? What had caused such devastation? Another weapon like those thunderflutes?

  Was there no end to the depths Munitio would stoop?

  He moved in front of the warden. The pot-bellied man was horrified, mustache drooping, mouth hanging open. He looked down at Cyrus.

  “I swear to you,” he said. “We’re telling the truth.”

  The warden closed his mouth, working his jaw.

  “Warden, sir,” one of his men said, eyes haunted as he tore them away from the flaming wreckage in the distance. “I… I know Quinn Velox. Gambled with the man many a night. Truth be told, he’s awful at it, sir. Easy to read, honest as the day he was born. That’s all, sir.”

  The warden looked back at Cyrus. Studied him.

  “We’re on the same side. I swear it.”

  Then he nodded.

  ———

  The dome vanished.

  Raindrops pattered on Vander Wolf’s head through a vast swath of nothingness cut through the ceiling. He stared upward, dumbstruck.

  The man who created the dome heaved deep breaths beside him, down on one knee. His bandages were loosened, long strands whipping in the wind. Suddenly they snapped into place, pulled tight by an invisible force.

  The woman was there too, breathing hard, eyes distant. Her hair became tangled in the whirlwind. Bright golden ribbons danced playfully around the witch. Some grew violent, shifting from gold to pink. The ribbons thrashed about as her eyes focused, locking on Bandages. She didn’t even spare a glance for Vander, who was usually the most important man in any given room.

  Bless the Flocks for that, he thought.

  Her heels left the floor. The witch rose, lifting into the air inch by inch, supported by nothing but those ethereal gold and pink ribbons. That ominous smile returned to her lips, chilling Vander to his bones.

  “Poor baby!” the floating woman said and cackled. “Done already?”

  The bandaged man grunted with effort and stood back up.

  “The rest is up to you,” Bandages said in his warped voice, shoving Vander aside.

  He hit the floor hard, dust and debris kicking up.

  At the same time, the witch surged forward, crashing into Bandages with a shockwave that shook the room. Both of them went hurtling out the shattered window beyond sight.

  Vander coughed and picked himself up.

  He waited, but there were no further signs of their battle. The insanity had come and gone. He stumbled over to the window. The only thing he could see out there was the smoldering wreck of the Wall of Ulciscor and his dreams.

  A flicker of light caught his attention. Far below, several residential buildings were ablaze. The people he’d taken up the charge of protecting were suffering. There seemed no end to the madness.

  He thought about throwing himself out that window, but one thought stopped him as he drew close to the edge.

  It’s their dream, too.

  Vander looked toward the blasted-out door where Maro Ren had escaped with his cronies. Bane curse him if he was going to let the bastards take his beloved city unopposed.

  ———

  The light faded. The building heaved, unstable. Chunks of ceiling broke off and scattered to chunks and pebbles across the gilded room.

  A section of wall collapsed.

  Luke pushed off on Red feet, ankles straining, tiles cracking, leaping at Vasran. Thick scarlet threads traveled to his fist, enough to be visible.

  Vasran reacted, stepping aside and readying a gauntleted counter. Luke crashed down, already discarding the color. It was a feint, after all. He knew he’d be no match for Green’s reflexive abilities without some of his own. He ducked the incoming blow and jabbed Aisha’s knife into Vasran’s waist, burying it between plates. It came away bloody, droplets hanging in the air for a heartbeat.

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  The major’s next strike was already coming, but he was ready with a tattooed arm. The shining blue barrier cracked like ice under the force of that silvery metal gauntlet. His other arm glowed scarlet as Vasran pulled back— just enough to escape Luke’s range in time for the swing.

  Here he stood, fears faced, liquid lightning running through his veins, and still had no idea how he was going to beat this man. If he could use both Red and Green, it might be possible, but letting go of Magenta…

  Is too dangerous, Mergule warned. For both you and your human friend.

  That’s starting to sound like your favorite saying, Luke said. He and Vasran circled each other, Green swirling inside him in anticipation. How about this? When I release the colors, the threads are still there, right? For an instant, at least. Can I re-grab the threads around our wounds before they get a chance to disperse?

  In theory. But you are weaving Magenta everywhere. Inside your friend, in your thunderflute wound, in your nose… Unworthy successor, you would be assaulted by immense pain. There is no guarantee that you would not pass out immediately. Then, you would have precious few seconds to reassert the weaves.

  Vasran charged, roaring. Luke bent one way, then darted the other direction. Another feint to keep the man busy. How long would these work? He blinked, checking how much Green the major had left. Still about half, and almost all of the Blue.

  Do you have a better plan?

  Not one you are willing to entertain.

  Abandon Aisha and flee, he guessed. Well, he wasn’t going to do that. Not now, not ever. She didn’t deserve that.

  No one did. Snare taught him that.

  Release your Red threads before impact, Mergule said after another tense exchange. It will weaken your blows, but the residual effects should still give you enough of an edge against his armor. I suggest allocating Magenta into your hand now.

  He considered, wreathing his hand in pinkish light, not enough to shine. The healing light inside his body felt as though it were becoming dim, giving him a taste of what would happen if he let go of it. What Mergule suggested made sense. If Luke attacked with all his might, Vasran would just absorb it with Blue and defeat him while he was reclaiming the threads. He had to wear him down.

  You actually came up with something risky, Luke said, sliding out of the way of an attack. He grinned. Let’s try it.

  I want to see it, Mergule said, monotone. Your way of doing things.

  Luke swapped the dagger to his other hand and made a taunting gesture with the fingers of his dominant hand. He held the grin.

  Vasran snarled, charging again. Veins bulged up his neck and around his head, a deep purple on pale skin. Flocks. His arm was wound back like a spring. Positioning himself with supernatural footwork, he loosed that spring on the empty space where Luke’s head had been.

  Vasran’s eyes lowered, widening, finding him just as a Red-fueled fist crunched the plate covering his gut. Glowing red embers scattered from Luke’s hand, and they both grunted, stumbling back from each other.

  Fight it. Luke told himself forcefully. He clenched his teeth, bearing the pain. Fight it!

  His senses fluttered as though he were hanging over a cliff, holding on to the ledge with exhausted fingers. He was losing himself to the blackness, even enhanced by Green. His whole body craved release from the agony, to let go and drop. Before he did, he reached out with his mind and reasserted control over the Magenta around his flute wound and Aisha’s injury. Focus came easier after that. He grabbed the light creeping away from the other spots and jammed it back into place.

  It worked. It worked.

  Vasran ran his gauntlet over the plate of armor now sporting an impression of Luke’s knuckles. He looked unnerved momentarily, shaking his head and muttering something. Then he surged forward like a full-speed automobile, ready for more.

  Luke threw his hands back up, determined.

  Now he just had to keep doing it.

  ———

  Shortly following the great boom that shook everything around Deen, a blindingly bright line of light ripped clean through the seventh and eighth floors, collapsing the ceiling, which in turn smashed walls down, cascading devastation down the hallways. It was as though a ray of the sun itself had paid them a visit.

  Deen blinked tears and spots out of his eyes. He coughed dust and pushed himself up off a man-sized chunk of fallen debris. What had once been a simple corridor with a right exit was now a series of half-exposed offices and other workrooms. Loose papers fluttered among a smoky haze of stone wreckage, blown about by wind and rain courtesy of the newly-installed window— an enormous arced hole spanning two floors, cut as though by some inconceivably huge blade.

  “Is—” Deen coughed fiercely, lungs working to clear the dust. He waved his arm in front of his face. “Is everyone alright?”

  “Somehow,” the cheek-scarred woman groaned, smoothing her uniform. “Theo? Theo!”

  After finding his spear, the sound of armor shuffling drew Deen’s attention across the haze to a man in silver plating wedged underneath half of a split door. The soldier threw it off and stood. “Here,” he said.

  “Then, where’s…” she trailed off at the mustached man grinning at her from practically a foot away, dusting his hands clean. A stark trail of blood ran from forehead to chin, face peppered so white you’d think he stuck it in a bag of flour.

  “By Buteo,” the armored rankless swore, surveying the area. “What has happened?”

  “Weavers waging war,” Deen whispered, too soft to hear.

  “Hey,” Mustache said, alarmed. He pointed. “Hey, your wall.”

  Deen stepped carefully over to him to get a better angle through the gargantuan slice of open air. He gaped.

  The Wall of Ulciscor was engulfed in an inferno. The remnants of a watchtower had been blasted through by something as if it had been made of paper, leaving only a hollow memory of its original shape. The length of the Wall itself had holes at all heights, the worst of which were those at the bottom, collapsing sections above like a house of cards.

  The sight of it twisted him into knots. The Daevans were on their doorstep and the door was wide open. The city was finished. Was Wolf even still alive? Maybe they were all finished and just didn’t know it yet.

  “Which direction is this?” Deen asked. He looked up at the stars to sleuth it out, but he had a feeling he already knew.

  “South,” the cheek-scarred woman said, figuring it out first. She didn’t know her answer broke his heart. He’d thought of that Wall as a second home. Gone. Gone, like Arston and all the rest.

  He forced himself to turn back toward the rubble inside, advancing to the armored man’s side.

  “You’re Theo?”

  “What? Yes. Deen Daniels, right?”

  He nodded. “Orders, sir?” he asked, stifling his emotions. Theo met his eyes and returned the nod.

  “We get to those clipping stairs,” Theo said, swiveling his helmed head to address them all. If we’re first, we hold it until Yulania and the others can reach us. They won’t give up, and neither should we. Vander Wolf is counting on us.”

  Deen saluted, wrapping fingers tight around his spear.

  ———

  Cyrus entered the next prison hallway— he’d lost track of how many he’d walked through— accompanied by the warden and another prison guard. Behind one of the cells was a Rixatori woman with sharp black eyebrows and a hard face dressed in prisoner green sat back on a tiny cot, head resting against gray-bricked wall as she worked her bicep with a dumbbell. She looked up as they approached.

  The warden signaled for the guard. He pulled out a ring of keys and set to work unlocking the cage. The woman came alert, finding her feet.

  “What’s this supposed to be? Putting me to the sword? I’m owed at least a sham trial, surely?”

  “At ease, lieutenant,” the warden said. “Nobody’s executing you.”

  She said nothing, folding her arms.

  “Wouldn’t do that with a teenager standing next to me, now would I?” the warden muttered.

  Seras glanced at Cyrus, bags under her eyes. “Who’s the twig?”

  “Your new best friend,” the warden said, gesturing. The guard pulled the cell open. “Cyrus here argued for your release.”

  “Cyrus? As in… Cyrus Alder?”

  “That’s me.”

  Seras regarded him, longer this time.

  “Where is Captain Daniels?” she asked, expression hard as a stone.

  “I returned to Ulciscor with him this morning. He’s doing everything he can, but he needs our help.”

  “Damn right he does.” She put her hands on her hips. “No wonder you people need me. So, what’s happening?”

  “Let’s walk and talk,” Cyrus said, looking to the warden for approval.

  The warden motioned to the guard, who began leading them back the way they came. Seras slipped into her shoes and left the cell, following after them.

  “Captain Velox sent me here,” Cyrus said. “He’s hurt, but he’ll be alright. Daniels and I went to see him first. We’ve been trying to get the word out.”

  “What word?”

  “That Mammon Rigel controls part of the Ulciscor Guard. He’s got Vasran and Cade in his pocket.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” A tinge of sorrow entered her voice. “I wish… I wish it weren’t true. But if it is, it explains everything. What happened with Arston and his men…” She shook her head. “It was them. They committed those terrible crimes and pinned everything on us.”

  “You felt the shaking earlier, Lieutenant Seras?” the warden asked.

  Seras nodded slowly.

  “That was the clipping Wall collapsing,” the warden said. “Saw it myself. Dreadful sight. Had to lend the boy an ear after that.”

  A few hallways later, they were nearly bowled over by a sweating, panting prison guard. The man stumbled over his words, trying several times before he could get anything coherent to come out of his mouth.

  “S-She’s here! Warden, sir! We have to… have to stand together!”

  “What are you talking about, man?” the warden demanded, grabbing the guard by the shoulders as he babbled. “Who’s here?”

  “Cade!”

  Cyrus’ blood ran cold. By the looks of it, that name had the same effect on everyone else. The messenger finally got the words out.

  “Alexis Cade’s soldiers are approaching Central Prison!”

  ———

  On the cusp of fainting, Luke smashed his fist into Vasran’s silvery gut, near where he had the first time. The armor bent, but did not break.

  It will break, he thought, sweat beading down his face. It has to break!

  Mergule assured him it would. Eventually.

  They separated to recover, breathing heavy. Both of them had grown winded in spite of their abilities. Luke’s whole body felt like lead, even with Magenta. The ruined room stank of sweat and marble dust. The building shook intermittently, as if to join them in gasping for air.

  When it stilled, he took a step.

  And his tattoos shimmered, dissipating as glowing scarlet cinders.

  The well of power and fire burning inside him was snuffed out like a candle. A wave of exhaustion and pain beat down on him, weighing down Luke’s arms and legs. He was so surprised he almost didn’t get the shield up in time as Vasran decked him in the face, slamming him back into a broken-legged table, crumpled over by chunks of fallen ceiling. The dagger Aisha had given him bounced aside, clanging.

  Flocks, everything hurt. He slotted the Magenta threads back into place and rose in a hurry, rolling out of the way of a greaved kick. He found his footing and dodged two more punches, panting, worried.

  What happened? Why did the transformation run out?

  And why did he still hurt so badly?

  You can only wield that form for a few minutes at a time. Your flask has reverted to its normal state. You can no longer hold as much color as before.

  So he’d lost most of his Magenta. His head and arm throbbed, and his wound screamed at him as he rebalanced everything. All this, he juggled while contending with a frenzied assault from Vasran. The loss of his transformation had emboldened the major into pushing for a finale.

  The outside of a gauntlet whirring through the air clipped his shoulder unexpectedly. It unbalanced him, forced him to fall backward to avoid Vasran’s uppercut. A metal boot stomped down, cracking a tile as he rolled, his stomach a heartbeat from being popped like a grape.

  Blood thrummed in his ears. He landed in a crouch and reached for the flames, desperate. Nothing happened.

  Vasran bellowed, lunging for the kill as Aisha Fibian stepped out of his shadow and plunged her dagger into the man’s side. His head whipped toward her.

  “Fibian!” he roared. He spun, grabbing her extended wrist. “Bane-cursed bitch!” Luke winced as he heard the bone snap. She screamed a long scream. The second dagger fell out from between his armor plating then, clattering to the floor. Blood sprayed forcefully from the wound.

  Luke stood, understanding. Vasran reacted too slowly to her surprise attack. That could only mean one thing.

  He was out of Green.

  Luke pulled back his arm, releasing both colors.

  RED!

  He condensed everything he could fit into a fist, a thunderbolt racing down his arm. He screamed against the pain, all of it hammering him at once. Vasran turned back, face paling. Luke weaved a faint Blue around his bright scarlet hand and rammed it into the bastard full force.

  The armor plate protecting his gut shattered. Luke’s fist kept going in a shower of frost and gore until the man himself was blown back a good fifteen feet, impacting against a gilded, crumbling wall with a thunderous bang.

  Horror-stricken, Jorgan Vasran tumbled face-first into a jumble of extravagant debris, unmoving.

  ———

  “There!” the cheek-scarred woman said. “I see them!”

  Deen rounded the corner next, a familiar grand staircase to the top floor coming into view. Bodies littered the floor, dressed in a variety of military uniforms and fancy suits. He met the sightless gaze of a bureaucrat wearing a bright armband. His mouth was frozen open with shock and a blossom of blood rested on a chest that neither rose nor fell. Some of the fallen wore the standard clerk’s attire, and not all of those wore the mark of Tapera.

  Deen pressed forward, driving his spear through the back of a soldier engaged with the youngest man among the rankless. Cheek Scar and Mustache ran past the three of them to deal with an armored foe battling Yulania’s own plated warrior. They wasted no time dispatching him.

  He scanned the rest of the open space where multiple corridors intersected around the staircase. The damage to the building wasn’t as intense here. The only person he hadn’t noticed before was standing halfway up the stairs, a well-built bald man wearing spectacles and a Guard uniform without a rank designation.

  “You’re alive?” Bartman asked Cheek Scar, incredulous.

  “Last we checked,” she said.

  “Yes, yes,” Yulania said, waving off their conversation. “I’d have slapped you all silly otherwise.” She spun to face the stairs. “How is it looking, Seb?”

  “All clear, madam.”

  Deen’s heart thundered in his chest as they marched up those stairs, toward what felt like destiny. Whatever had happened, whatever awaited, he would face it with his best foot forward.

  The chaos of men screaming and clashing and dying echoed in his mind until the only sounds left were the shuffling of footsteps and the whistling of wind and rain through smashed windows, rattling whatever remained. Then, even those seemed to fade away. Seconds dragged to minutes as they searched.

  And finally, they encountered a grim-faced man shambling along the wall, coming their direction. His uniform and trousers were torn and ripped, glass shards embedded along his body reflecting a flash of lightning. He held a large shard of glass in his hand as if it were a knife, blood leaking around his thumb. His eyes were sunken, cheeks gaunt. Thin of hair but thick of beard, Vander Wolf dropped the shard upon seeing them, weathered hand lowering.

  Yulania’s age seemed to halve as she rushed to his side. Flocks, the old woman nearly tripped. Cheek Scar, the young man— Bartman— and the armored rankless that wasn’t Theo clustered around Wolf and Yulania, forming a sort of protective wall.

  “I’ll be clipped,” Mustache said softly. Deen heard a stifled sob and turned. Tracks of tears were running down the man’s dust-coated face.

  He faced away quickly, embarrassed. “Something in my eye, new guy. Both my eyes, actually. Happens all the time.”

  Deen laid a hand on Mustache’s shoulder and walked past. The other armored rankless saw him approaching Wolf and positioned himself defensively. The general cleared his throat and waved the man off.

  “Deen Daniels,” Wolf said. “I believe I’ve caused you a great deal of hardship these past few weeks. It is, as you can imagine, the least of my crimes. I signed off on the idea of capturing you. I thought… I thought that speaking with you at my leisure would be the simplest way of getting to the bottom of whatever was happening. Little did I know I’ve been sitting at the bottom of all this for a very long time.”

  “Maro Ren is Mammon Rigel, isn’t he?” Yulania asked. Bartman stepped in to support Wolf as he faltered. “Many of those we cut down on our way here were part of his personal guard.”

  “It’s true,” Wolf said softly.

  “Vasran and Cade work for him,” Deen said. “Worse, they’re loyal. I don’t think you’re going to be able to reason with them.”

  “I don’t either,” Wolf said. He untangled himself from Bartman, taking a deep breath. He winced. “Without the Wall… Well, we have to evacuate Ulciscor. No way around it. The Daevans are marching on us tonight. But we can’t do that effectively without control of the Guard.”

  “There’s a force from the West Wall outside fighting the Interior guards stationed here,” Deen said. “Linden is with them.”

  “Is that true?” Wolf asked, perking up.

  “I saw her myself.”

  The general shared a look with Yulania. “Mammon told me Zela was dead. Maybe that’s not all he was wrong about.”

  “Luke and Aisha are here, too. I have no idea how they got inside.”

  “Zela probably brought them,” Wolf said. “Bless that woman.”

  “Should have married her,” Yulania said, annoyed.

  “Yulania!” Wolf said, taken aback. She rolled her eyes. He cleared his throat and continued as though the comment never happened. “In any case, we need to move quickly. Let’s head down. Nothing gets done if we keep standing around here.”

  “But Lord Wolf,” Bartman protested. “Your injuries…”

  “Worry about me later!” Wolf snapped. “And stop calling me that!”

  Bartman took the general in one arm, Deen the other. The rest made a tight defensive circle around them. It was slow going, and they had to pause multiple times to tend to Wolf’s glass-embedded wounds, but every step they took felt like a candle lighting the way home.

  The city was lost. But maybe there was something to salvage.

  ———

  Freshly plucked threads of Magenta swirled all around Luke at his command, stitching themselves into place. It was instinctual for him, but he had to be a bit more deliberate instructing them into Aisha’s wounds.

  She had fallen, clutching her side. Healing weaves replaced, she grunted and got up. One of her hands was bent the wrong way. Pushing herself up with the good one, she picked up her daggers and inspected them. She sniffed and reached awkwardly to sheathe one, then stalked over to Vasran’s still body, bent down, and jammed it through his neck.

  Luke looked at his trembling palm, half-listening to her sigh and spit on the dead man. His head felt scrambled.

  “It’s purple,” she called, walking back. “What’s that about?”

  He almost didn’t register what she was talking about, and he was staring right at it. His hand was plastered with gore. Dark purple, almost black. Was this Vasran’s blood? Pruinan or not, the major should have bled red like everybody else.

  What is it? he asked.

  I… have no idea, Mergule said, sounding unsettled. I suspect it is related to the art of false Weaving. That human’s blood darkened when he injected himself with the second color. A side effect, perhaps.

  “Mergule says it’s probably the ampules.”

  Aisha pulled Luke close in a one-armed hug.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, sincere. “Thank you, Luke.”

  He froze. He had no idea how to process it. He just stood there, stock-still, breathing in the smell of sweat, blood, and perfume.

  She pulled back and met his eyes.

  “Still fighting fit?”

  He nodded. She ruffled his hair.

  “Let’s catch up with Captain Daniels.”

  He searched the room, finding his cloak and throwing it on. As they started for the exit, he asked Mergule a question.

  Could Vasran really have done as he said? Taken you from my corpse?

  Not unless I will it. Establishing the link is a mutual affair.

  So Mergule wouldn’t die if he did. That gave him a little peace of mind. He wasn’t sure if he’d gotten used enough to the feeling of releasing Magenta to let go of it for as long as he did.

  Maybe I really am too reckless.

  That is progress, unworthy successor.

  He smiled.