The royal army marches into town in splendid scarlet arrays. Only eight soldiers across to fit through the narrow streets, the columns stretch out into the distance, disappearing around a bend in the layout out of the city roads. The procession of Densmore’s military might advances, shoulder to shoulder, never wavering or losing formation. The [Soldiers] move with eerie precision, in perfect lockstep as though an area-wide Skill is in effect. I flare my [Manasight], but I don’t see anything obvious at work; they’re simply that disciplined. Their red banners snap in the light wind, and the golden trim on their armor glistens like a burnished clockwork device in the hot, noonday sun.

Our little crew, plus the [Merchant] Padouk—I’ve been keeping an eye on him since I returned, but he’s strangely normal lately, which only makes me more suspicious—crowds together, jostling and bumping elbows in the tight space. We’re all perched on a narrow balcony at Silaraon City Academy, courtesy of our friend Ezio, the [Scholar Nonpareil]. Like us, he’s overlooking the proceedings with guarded interest. It’s not often that a borderland city like Silaraon warrants this kind of official attention from the capital. I suppose that I am to blame for that, albeit indirectly.

The rows of marching soldiers pour into the broad, tree-lined square in front of the city center. At some unseen signal, they split apart in perfect unison, four columns moving to each side. A massive, blood-red horse canters through their midst, tossing its head and snorting as though it’s ready to charge the enemy. Seated on its back, a muscular, golden-haired man rides tall in the saddle, peering down at the crowd imperiously. He can’t be bothered to even spare a glance at the administration buildings that house the local [Administrators] and minor [Lords] who run Silaraon. Compared with the glories of court, they don’t matter at all.

Ember clutches at her glass swords, now strapped at her side instead of on display in the studio gallery, and the weariness of someone who’s seen too much creeps into her features. Her eyes are haunted, like she’s watching her own funeral. She’s not simply nervous like the rest of us; the set of her jaw reminds me she’s experienced far more of the world than I have. Whatever’s coming is nothing new. War and misery are inevitable; it’s an old story told again with new characters, and she’s grown tired of its recounting.

Below us, a procession of wan-faced, wrung-out [Bureaucrats] scurry up to the royal army officer, bowing and scraping so much that I’m ashamed of my own city. Are we so small in their eyes that we have to abase ourselves even further?

“Bunch of boot-lickers,” Ember scoffs, and although I echo her sentiments, I keep it to myself. I haven’t earned the right to sound off.

It’s not often that I think about civic pride. Silaraon is my home, the only one I’ve ever known, but I'm not involved in politics or community events. If the glass works were suddenly transported somewhere else, I probably wouldn't even notice the difference unless my friends didn’t make the journey. Aren’t all cities the same? Some are bigger, some are smaller, but they’re all still just full of people trying to get by. But in this moment, as I watch the best and brightest of our area bow and scrape to these outsiders, sourness twists my stomach. We deserve better. We have heroes, too.

I hope you’re all right, Tem, wherever you are.

I can't overhear their discussions from this distance, but based on the way the courtly officer towers over them, his presence smoldering and oppressive at this distance, the conversation doesn't appear to favor the hometown crowd. I strain, pushing my senses to the limit, but the world is suddenly awash in a blinding, overbearing presence. The details below are utterly obliterated behind the domineering power emanating from the royal officer. He's like the sun itself, and I drop my Skill before my mana channels are seared away into nothingness.

I hiss in pain at the radiating displeasure coming from the unknown figure below. Even now, without my [Manasight] engaged, it’s still a palpable, fearsome thing.

“Who is that?” Mikko says, awe in his voice. He’s leaning against the railing, his hands gripping the horizontal cast iron bar so hard that it’s creaking under his might. “He’s the most powerful presence I’ve ever seen in my life! I want to be like that when I grow up.”

“No, you don’t,” a new voice says. I turn toward the corner to see who’s speaking. A shadow detaches from the wall next to me, startling me so badly that I jump and barely bite back a yelp. Mbukhe silently hands me a note, a faint twinkle of amusement in his eyes at my response to his unveiling. His finely-honed stealth Skill is still too powerful for even my upgraded [Manasight] to pierce through when it’s running passively, although if I focus I can sense his mana signature more clearly now than I did in the forest.

How did Padouk see him? I ask myself again, glancing over at the [Merchant] who’s in the middle of a lively conversation with Melina. There’s no way he’s remotely high level enough to match an [Inquisitors]’s Skill. Perhaps he has a vague sense for knowing when a customer is around, I speculate, but I can’t imagine it winning out against an [Inquisitor]’s military-trained stealth specialization. I almost ask Mbukhe, but Padouk and Melina share the balcony nearby, so I bite my tongue for the third time today; I’m proud of my growing restraint.

Instead, I say, “That will never cease to unnerve me. You can’t resist a dramatic entry, can you?”

“Guilty as charged,” Mbukhe chuckles. His dark eyes never stop moving, darting around as he scans the balcony, the courtyard, and sweeps the rooftops. “It’s been drilled into me over the years. I blame Casella. He’s a corrupting influence.”

“Who’s this?” Mikko demands. “And what do you know about that soldier over there?”

Mbukhe mutters an oath under his breath, his eyes narrowing and locking onto a single target for once. “He’s not a soldier. He’s a [General], and a powerful one at that. [General] Tychicus is not a frequent battlefield presence. If he’s coming here personally, then expect trouble.” He scratches the stubble on the top of head. “Best if you don’t get in his way, Nuri. I’m confident that I might be able to slip one of his traps, if I had to, but he’s stronger than Casella or I am in a direct confrontation. Far stronger. You’ll stand no chance if you irritate him, even when your armor is finished.”

“How did you know about my armor?” I ask, only realizing after my question slips out that I ignored the important part of Mbukhe’s warning. He looks as grim as Tem did in the Rift when he warned me about the behemoth, which is more of a moving natural disaster than a monster. “Oh? So he’s firmly in the Second threshold?”

Mbukhe smiles softly. “It is my business to know about everything, Nuri. Your armor? Intriguing, although I do not say that in official capacity. Keep iterating, and I may know some buyers down the road. As for Tychicus? His [Lieutenants] are at the Second Threshold. The man himself is one of only a handful in the entire realm who have broken through into the Third threshold. He could end most border wars single-handedly. Do not antagonize him.”

I blink innocently. “Why are you looking at me? I’d never dream of—”

“Someone gag him, quick!” Mikko interjects.

Lionel and Avelina both move to slap their hands over my mouth. I step back and swat their hands away like buzzing flies, shocking myself with my speed. The surprise on their faces tells me that I’m not just exaggerating things. I’ve noticed that I’m more physically fit after my threshold advancement, but I’m so much faster than I realized that it catches all of us off guard.

“Whoa, Nuri! You’re not lying to us, are you? You didn’t re-Class into a [Warrior], or maybe a [Scout], like your missing hero?” Melina asks, her eyes sharpening as she peers at my quick hands and martial stance.

“No, he is still a [Glassworker],” Mbukhe says offhandedly. “Congratulations on your strong advancement, by the way. This strength and speed are simply the results of holding so much mana in his body all the time.”

Melina startles. “You can see his Class? And you know he’s past the first Threshold? How? You should not be privy to that information.”

“The whole world lies bare before me, child,” Mbukhe says sternly, but he winks at me when she swallows hard and looks away.

“Well, will you teach me how?” she finally asks, capturing the flitting remnants of her courage like a firefly in a bottle.

He shrugs noncommittally. “Sign up as an [Inquisitor]. Five years of training after your re-Class, and you’ll know far more about people than you ever wanted to before. But remember, knowledge is a two-edged sword: the more you know, often the less you like the people whom you once considered friends.”

“We’re used to that,” Avelina says, elbowing her sister. “That’s no different from living with a twin. Mel probably knows me better than I know myself, but she still loves me.”

“Most of the time,” Melina replies, laughing when Padouk gives her a scandalized look and a reproving shake of his head..

“I wish I could say that I came here for a social visit,” Mbukhe says somberly, interrupting the laughing and teasing. “I have information for you, Nuri. [General] Tychicus didn't want to risk running you off if a different [Inquisitor] appeared, so I was selected to deliver the news to you. You're wanted for further questioning regarding your association with Tem Cytekin.”

“I have to come with you now? Is that an order?” I tense up, glancing around the balcony to see if I have any avenue of escape, but trying to run or hide from Mbukhe is a fruitless endeavor—and he and I both know it.

“No, but stay close by. When they send for you, don't run, or you'll only make things worse. Casella and I laid the groundwork to exonerate you, but it's out of our hands now. But Nuri? Tell them the truth. These aren't field agents; they’re used to the ugliness that is Capital politics, and kindness is an utterly foreign concept to them. If they catch you in your lies, you'll wish you'd never been born.”

=+=

The rest of the day passes in solemn silence. My friends and I watch the proceedings with considerably less interest than we had before Mbukhe’s dire warning. His note is still burning a hole in my pocket, but I don’t dare read it until I’m at home and certain that no one is watching my every move. That night, we gather at Mikko's house, since the rest of us only have small cabins or apartments to our names. His father and mother dote on everyone unrelentingly, heaping up our plates with every sweet treat known to man.

“You should have given us more warning,” Mikko’s mother, Kirsi, says. She levels the most loving glare imaginable at me from across the table, her arms crossed as she takes a brief break from piling dessert on Lionel’s plate. There’s a soft, warm look in her eyes, yet it’s simultaneously as unyielding as stone. It's the kind of reproving look only a mother can give.

I smile back at her, touched by the concern. Idly, I wonder if it's some sort of mysterious, universal Skill granted to mothers upon the birth of a child. Or maybe they get an entire set of Skills: [Mother Knows Best], [Detect Lies], [Feed the Troops], and so on. I have to admit that it feels nice to be worried over, though, and the icy grip of worry on my heart over the incursions and imminent interrogations thaws out a bit.

“This is more celebration than I could ever need,” I insist, gesturing around the room to my gathered friends and adopted family, who are stuffing their faces with sweet rolls and cake, content to celebrate in each other’s company. “What more could a man truly ask for?”

“We would have prepared gifts,” Reijo says gruffly. “At the very least, let me get you a grooming kit for your facial hair. You've done an admirable job growing it out; now it's high time that you take more dignified care of that luscious beard.”

We slip into easy laughter, and I let out a happy sigh as the mead flows freely and the desserts continue to pile up. After all we've been through lately, a chance to just kick back and relax is priceless. My eyes wander around the familiar room, taking in the stenciled outlines of blue flowers on the wall, and the bright pops of yellow where Kirsi has hung new curtains over the windows. On top of the long, cherry wood buffet, three vases from my early days in the hot shop stand in a place of honor. They’re not my most skilled work, not by a long shot, but Kirsi claims that they’re her favorite. They're proudly displayed on an intricately cast, triple-tiered iron stand. Mikko's work. It’s a gift from the forge, and a double monument to their two sons—it hits me again that they truly think of me as family.

I wipe my eyes surreptitiously, and then stand up and gesture with my glass, still half full of the delicious mead. “After my Class advancement, I’ve earned a brand new Skill,” I announce abruptly. “And I'd like to give a brief demonstration followed by a team exercise.”

“Another one?” Lionel yells loudly, his cheeks flushed from too much mead. He ducks his head in embarrassment when Reijo makes a show of covering his ears. “You’re on a roll, Nuri! Is that four Skills now? You’re gonna run out of room to store them all in that shriveled little soul of yours. Seriously, though, congratulations!”

I glance around the room and waggle my eyebrows mysteriously, enjoying the looks of surprise and intrigue on my friends’ faces.

Kirsi leans over to kiss my forehead. “Nuri! You truly have been holding out on us. After all this time with only your initial Class Skill, you’ve earned three new Skills in one year? Come on then, my boy, let's see what you can do.” The lattice of laugh lines around her eyes deepen and crinkle as she smiles at me kindly.

I resolve in that moment to come visit more often, ashamed that I've been so obsessed with my projects and my drive to advance that I haven't made time for my family. They might not be blood, but they love me all the same. They deserve better.

I clear my throat. “Melina, take notes please. Ezio will be most displeased if we don't document the range and amount of materials. He’s already lectured me about it once.”

“Oh? You got a distance skill?” A note of excitement creeping into her voice she leans forward, her notebook materializing so fast I can’t even follow where she’s got it stored. Her pen is poised above the page, and a sheen of mana coats her eyes in preparation of analyzing the Skill so she can properly take notes.

“Perhaps we should get a metal baking sheet before I proceed. I'm afraid things might get messy, and I'd rather not burn the table,” I say.

“You mean, burn the table again?” Mikko interjects with a snicker.

I laugh at his mother's eye roll. “Don't worry, I've outgrown my childish impudence, although I can't make any promises if Avelina starts slinging flames everywhere. She’s a real firecracker.”

‘That's fair,” Avelina says, grinning as she traces her name in the air with tiny jets of fire, a mischievous, wild glint in her eyes. “You never know when I might start feeling inspired.”

Kirsi bustles off to the kitchen and fetches an old, scratched metal baking sheet. It’s worn and covered in a deep, bronzed patina that it’s earned over years of loving use and thousands upon thousands of cookies. She pushes some of the platters to the side of the table to make space for the baking sheet, and plonks it down in the center of the table with a resonant clang.

“Reijo, please clear the plates and make some room for them to get to work! I'm anxious to see what they come up with,” Kirsi says, helping her husband clear aside the meal that they prepared together. Their decades of practice together are on display as they make quick work of the cleanup, working in tandem like musicians playing melody and harmony to the same song.

Once the stage is set, I back up to one end of the room, standing in the corner by the doorway to create the most distance possible to the table. It's roughly four paces, which should be about close to the edge of my range. I point at the table dramatically for effect, concentrating on the metal plate and flexing the new Skill, [The Eternal Glass Forge: Extended Reach]. The name sends a thrill of pride through me every time.

Maintaining a firm grip with my willpower, I transmute a portion of my mana—the raw energy of the world—into a small batch of glass. This time I imagine that the glass is threaded through with gold, and sure enough, the glass comes out a distinctive ruby red.

Gasps of shock and a smattering of applause greet my demonstration. Melina leaps to her feet, her chair squeaking across the floors as she pushes it back in her haste to take a closer look. She practically lunges for the glass, a flash of mana coursing through her as she activates her composition Skill. It only takes her a moment to confirm what I already know, but it still brings a smile to my face when she renders her verdict.

“How! The batch of red glass is completely pure. There are no sediments, no leftover detritus, no mistakes in the ratios—it's ready to be worked as is. Nuri, this is incredible!”

“Thank you, thank you.” I fold my hand across my heart and take a small bow. “Now, who wants to demonstrate our attempt at a combined Skill, now that we happen to have some glass on hand?”

“What's the recharge time like?” Melina asks, still prodding at the glass and analyzing it with her combination of glass-working and research Skills. I really ought to arrange for her to study with Rakesh and Ezio.

“The recharge time is the downside right now,” I admit. “It takes nearly a full day before I can use it again.” I frown in annoyance at the restriction on the Skill. “I hope that over time, as I rank up the Skill, I can reduce the time it takes to fully restore its energy. If I can practice it and eventually achieve the ability to use the [Glass Forge] at the beginning and end of the day in the studio, for example, then it will be far more useful for completing specialty work. Conjuring up all the hard to find glass will earn a pretty penny. Combined with my best Skill, [Way of the Artisan: Architect of Unseen Worlds], I could probably get around most of my budgetary constraints for the time being.”

“I knew investing in your glass research was a good idea,” Avelina says smugly.”

I wink at her, and then turn to my adopted mother. “Now, what's your favorite small decoration or household item?”

She answers instantly, not hesitating in the slightest as her eyes light up. “I absolutely adore fluted wine glasses. Be a dear and make me a matching pair, Nuri?”

I grin at my friends. “All right, we have our commission. Lionel, have you made wine glasses before, or fancy goblets at least? Everyone ready?” Eager nods meet my questions, so I flourish my hands and point at the glass. “Avelina, light it up!”

Her blue-white flame roars to life as she holds up her index finger and points it toward the air just above the metal baking sheet. Her sister activates her own set of Skills, lifting up the batch of glass into the air. She manipulates it slowly, turning the glass at an even pace so that Avelina can bring it up to temperature in a controlled, uniform manner. Their coordination is impressive, but it’s to be expected given their years of experience sharing a workbench.

“The rest of us have to catch up to your control,” Lionel comments, voicing my thoughts. His brow is creased in concentration, and he’s leaning his elbows on the table as he squints at the slowly-melting glass. His entire being is wrapped up in studying their technique, although he doesn’t have any variation of [Manasight]. Maybe I should have them all practice, so they can see the inner workings of our Skills in action?

I wait for him to sigh and lean back in his seat before I speak again, not wanting to break into whatever line of thought that has him occupied. “How are you coming along with practice, Lio? Any luck with extending your range? We all need to improve—not just you. Don’t feel down about yourself.”

He shakes his head. “No, but I asked Ezio about it while we were visiting. He thinks that a focus glove could work for me, like we discussed, but he doesn’t know where he can get one easily in the next few months. With the rumors of war, prices have shot up through the roof, and supply chains have been disrupted all across Densmore.”

“Maybe Padouk can help source one,” Melina suggests brightly. Her concentration on her task doesn’t waver, but a slight smile graces her lips.

“Who’s this, now?” Kirsi asks, her eyes sharpening like a hawk that’s just caught sight of its prey. She edges closer to Melina, but I don’t miss the way she keeps her distance from the glowing glob of glass hovering above her beloved table top, taking care to avoid any possibility of getting burned.

“A foreigner who’s stealing our women,” I say flippantly, earning a snicker from Lionel and a smack on the shoulder from Kirsi.

Mikko’s mother follows up the cuff with a kiss on my cheek. “Be polite, Nuri. I know it doesn’t come naturally, but try for my sake.”

“Would you look at that! It’s time for Lio to do his part in the team project,” I reply with a wink, sidestepping the question. It won’t buy me much time. I’m sure she’s already planning on cornering me later and interrogating me until I tell her everything—another impressive Skill that mothers everywhere seem to share—but we really are on a time limit to complete the project before our mana runs out.

Right on cue, Lionel steps closer, squinting against the heat and flaring light of the hot glass. He gathers his mana, pushing it to his fingertips as he begins to imprint a basic shape on the prepared glass, in accordance with his cloning Skill, and I activate my [Manasight] to oversee the process. Lionel’s projected spellform still leaks worse than an old ship that hasn’t been patched up in years, but the amount of practice he’s put in shines through. The intensity of his mana has started to shift toward a purer, stronger rank of the Skill, and I’m sure that before long he’ll be able to stand two or three times farther away.

“Steady. You’re still too far away. I need you to get a few inches closer,” I order, and nod in approval as he reaches forward until his hand is almost touching the glass. With a target for the Skill finally within his external mana-control range, the flow of mana stabilizes. Lionel’s Skill latches onto the raw material, reshaping it and slowly molding the formless blob into a slender, elegant wine goblet.

He’s sweating and panting by the time it’s done, still not adept at pushing the Skill past the limits of physical touch, but I can tell he’s been putting in serious work to improve. We’re not ready yet to perform any delicate distance work, but we’re now a self-sufficient, mobile hot shop. Well, once a day, at any rate. And all we can make is a single glass or cup. But still! Progress is progress, however small.

“Incredible,” Kirsi breathes, staring at the ruby-red goblet as it spins in the air, annealing rapidly and held in place thanks to Melina’s handy array of glass-making Skills.

“A few more minutes, and you can test it out yourself,” Melina says with a sweet smile.

“The glass will be ready tonight?” Kirsi asks, incredulous. “Nuri always tells me that it takes a day or two for the work to set in. Can you really accelerate everything that quickly? Or has he been misinforming me all these years to buy himself more time to finish his projects?”

“Melina’s pretty special,” I say with a laugh, ignoring Kirsi’s teasing accusations. “That’s why she’s got that Naftalian after her.”

Melina turns to regard me with narrowed eyes. “Nuri. Are you saying he just wants me for my Skills?”

I shift to face her and shrug. “I don’t know, but I sure do! Our team is sunk with you and your Skills. As for Padouk? I don’t really care why he wants you, as long as he doesn’t steal you away. We need you more than he does.”

Kirsi clucks her tongue and shoos me out of the room. “Run along, boys. I want to hear all about this foreign heartthrob!”

Whooping and teasing, I shephard Lionel and Mikko out of the kitchen while Kirsi and the Linas have some girl time. We join Reijo in his sitting room, where he’s just gotten out a pipe and is tamping down some tobacco. He presents an extra few pipes to the group, but only Mikko takes him up on his offer, lighting up his own pipe as he sits down with his father. I enjoy the scent of pipe smoke, but I’ve never gotten into the habit. It makes my head spin, so I avoid the practice. I don’t mind their teasing that I’m a lightweight.

I settle into a tattered green chair with a satisfied sigh and kick my feet up on a nearby wicker footrest. “I have to thank you, Reijo. You gave me good counsel when I was here last about seizing hold of my life and making my decisions count. I don’t know where I’d be without you. You’re a life-saver.”

He chuckles around the well-worn stem of his favorite pipe, then inhales a mouthful of smoke. He breathes out, his mouth in a round shape, and blue-grey smoke rings puff up into the air, some big and slow, and others fast and quick, passing through the center of the wider smoke rings. “Ah, you’d have figured it out in time. I have faith in you, Nuri. You’ve always been a bright boy, if a bit mulish about doing things your own way.”

=+=

I wish the peace and quiet will last forever, but [General] Tychicus has other plans.

An [Inquisitor] shows up at my door early the next morning, insisting that I join him for an audience with the army officers and intelligence committee. I take my time grooming myself and performing morning ablutions, my mind racing through scenarios, before I don my jacket and jog down the path toward the barracks. The royal army battalion has taken over the guardhouses while they’re in Silaraon. Eminent domain has its perks.

The [Inquisitor] hands me off to a pair of guards, who escort me into a dim, stone-wall room somewhere on the third floor of the barracks. Moments later, the [General] stalks into the room, an entourage in tow.

“You’re sure this is the boy?” Tychicus looms over me, all gleaming armor and powerful muscles. He doesn’t ask me any questions; speaking to me directly never seems to cross his mind. I may as well not exist, since I am neither military nor in the second Threshold. Instead, his question is directed toward an [Adjutant] who saunters around the square room in which I’ve been sequestered, prepping privacy wards to keep our conversation hidden.

Although, come to think of it, I’m not sure anyone in Silaraon has the courage—or the idiocy—to spy on a court-appointed [General] with an army at his beck and call. Out here in the borderlands, he’s practically a king, a royal authority unto himself.

The [Adjutant] snaps a smart salute, turning toward Tychicus with an alacrity previously not on display. I catch sight of a hilt on his hip, and I remember that even non-combat specialists in the royal army could take me apart with ease. I have to watch my step here.

“Sir, the locals corroborate [Inquisitor] Casella’s story, as dubious as it sounds at first blush. This young man is certainly the one who hired Tem Cytekin for a training expedition in the forest. Allegedly, he also entered the greater Rift with him, though no one has seen hide nor hair of the [Expert Counterspell Scout] since then.”

“And this . . . craftsman came out in one piece?” Tychicus quirks a single eyebrow.

“I went into the Rift with Tem. That’s the honest truth, not an allegation,” I say more hotly than I probably should have. I blush, but I lift my chin and try to meet the [General]’s eyes.

He glances at me finally with a slight frown. He looks at me for the first time—really looks at me—and the full force of his presence is suffocating. l flinch away at the sudden storm of ferocious heat pouring off him. My [Heat Manipulation] does nothing to shield me from the pain, and I stagger backward, a curse springing to my lips. It’s like I’m standing in the searing desert sun with no shade, burning away to a crisp.

l grit my teeth, squeezing my fists in defiance as I try not to fall over. Swaying on my feet is all I can manage under his scrutiny, and I’m unable to meet his gaze with a straight back and square shoulders.

I’ve been weighed and found wanting. Suddenly, I’m a little more sympathetic toward the [Lords] and [Ladies] of Silaraon. Who can stand up to this monster in human flesh?

“Well, you have some back bone, I'll give you that. Either that, or you're too stupid to know when you're outmatched.” [General] Tychicus breaths in slowly, then lets out a heavy, weary sigh. It’s the sound of a man who’s accustomed to being surrounded by idiots.

“Tell me, young [Glassworker], which creatures did you encounter in the Rift?”

I struggle to take a breath, and the [General] evidently decides to take pity on me. He withdraws the smothering touch of his powerful presence, and I stand straighter, unconsciously classing my hands together behind my back. “Have you ever been in a Rift, Sir? It’s difficult to find words to describe it. Passing through the void . . . it’s like listening to the hiss and spit of a tea kettle boiling when the whistle isn’t working quite right. There's something fuzzing on the edge of your consciousness, a crackle and pop like burning pine full of pitch. Everything loses its definition—the entire world is a grayscale of not being.”

I shiver, remembering the odd sensation, like being dragged bodily through a vat of cold vegetable oil. “The void is slick. Everything feels too slippery, too intangible to hold. When we first entered the Rift, I thought I would cry when I saw the red rock and dirt. But stepping through that swirling portal wasn't an escape. Tem and I immediately had to take cover.”

“Hide? From what?” [General] Tychicus demands. He’s leaning forward, his hand on his sword hilt, and an undercurrent of violence swirls through the room.

“Overhead in the Rift, a behemoth floated through the . . . I would call what was in the sky cloud formations, but that's not doing the chaotic, multihued wisps justice. We hid under a rock formation until it passed.”

I pause and lick my lips. “That thing was like nothing I've ever seen before. Like . . . like an entire mountain pulled itself up by the roots, and was just soaring above us in defiance of gravity. We were so small that it didn't even notice us. It didn't care about us in the slightest. Even if it had seen us, I don't think it would have paid any attention to the puny humans in its domain. But I suppose that just made it all the more dangerous, since it could have settled down and crushed us into paste and never known the difference.

“After that? It’s all a blur, Sir.” My breathing quickens, and my pulse flutters as I recall the terror and excitement of the Rift. “We ran into a variety of creatures. A strange lizard twice the size of a horse, easily. Thousands—no, tens of thousands—of huge, scuttling, blood-red crabs. I thought they were going to swarm us and strip the flesh right off our bones.”

“And how did you survive?” [General] Tychicus asks. “Against such overwhelming odds, I would think you stood no chance.”

“I didn't stand a chance, not on my own. Without Tem, I would have died in the first few minutes. He did most of the fighting, while I distracted them when I could by freezing or heating the enemies. Mostly, we hid and ran. I didn’t do much of anything other than try to survive and stay behind Tem. I thought we were going to die down there. But then he seemed to recognize something. I don't know how he knew to find it. Perhaps he recognized some spatial anomaly he’d experienced before. Anyway, he tugged me sideways—I don’t know how else to describe it, though implying normal directions is the wrong thing—right into a maze. We slammed into a stone wall in the middle of deep darkness. It was there in the labyrinth that our escape began in earnest.”

“Surely you don’t believe any of this nonsense,” the [Adjutant] scoffs. His hand twitches toward the rapier at his side. “Should I teach him a lesson?”

The [General] holds up a big, square hand, silencing his attending officer. He peers at me with quiet intensity burning in his eyes. “What shape was the maze?”

I held [General] Tychicus’ gaze, and got the sense that he wasn’t trying to trap me in a trick question. Maybe there’s something about the way that I’m telling the story that’s convinced him of my sincerity. I nod after a moment, and an unspoken communication passes between us; Tem might say that we struck an [Accord], although no mana has sealed the oath. Nevertheless, the weight of something solemn settles over me.

“Tem explained the different kinds of labyrinth shapes to me,” I say. “There are circles, rectangles, spirals, and so on. Ours was linear. A rectangle. But the closer we got to the control room, the more recursive it became. Loops, curves, dizzying spirals.”

“And did you enter the control room?” [General] Tychicus asks, a sudden urgency to his voice that has been absent until now. Before, he was all courtly composure, embodying the solid, unbroken chain of command. Now, his presence hums with anticipation.

Sweat breaks out on my forehead, but I instantly burn it off with a deft touch of [Heat Manipulation]. I refuse to let them see my fear. What does he know? And what does he want?

“Yes, Sir, we entered the control room. I . . . I didn't expect such extravagant architecture. It never occurred to me before that the wraiths are capable of artistry. The ones we fought outside the Rift—or rather, the ones Tem fought while I hid—were more akin to monsters. They were strange beings of smoke and anger. But once we got into the labyrinth itself, they acted more human than I'd ever expected.”

[General] Tychicus’ eyes turn cold. “The boy is definitely telling the truth,” he declares in his stentorian tones, and immediately his [Adjutant] and secondary [Officer] salute and get to work. Clearly, they’d been waiting for the go ahead to proceed with the next stage of [General] Tychicus’ plan—whatever that might be.

“I need you to tell me everything you learned down there. Anything that you may have seen in the control room, or taken with you, could be vital to turning the tide of war. Don’t hold anything back. The information you provide could save lives, boy. My personal [Adjutant] will speak with you now. I have an army to command.”

And with that, [General] Tychicus sweeps out of the room, trailing lines of mana behind him that's so thick that it coalesces. The after-image of his passing hangs in the air for nearly half a minute after he’s gone, emitting smoldering, sparking fury.

“This way, please,” the [Adjutant] says smoothly, taking me by the elbow and ushering me to a side room for questioning. My body responds mechanically, obeying before I even think to put up any resistance, and I smile warmly at my new friend as he asks me very kindly to tell him everything

A mental Skill? I wonder suddenly, rousing myself with an internal snarl of anger. As much as I despise manipulation, I don’t dare refuse his questions. All I can think about is how I’m going to get out of here alive. If they find out that I have the PPP. . . .

Mbukhe said not to lie to them, and I certainly don’t want any of the common [Soldiers] to die because I’m too much of a coward to admit what I stole from the labyrinth, but I have a premonition that I shouldn’t share the details. Something isn’t right about any of this, and I want to get to the bottom of it before I commit to telling them anything else.

We reach our destination—a small, square room without any windows, with a plain, rough-hewn table and two chairs, illuminated by a single mana lamp—and the [Adjutant] begins to question me and take notes. My mind races, turning over escape schemes as we talk, but I discard them all as too fanciful. Abruptly, a thought hits me, and a plan begins to form. My lips curl up as I suddenly know how I’m going to get out of this one.

I’m going to use the best deception known to man. I’m going to lie with the truth.