Daniels gritted his teeth, heaving the assassin away. He grabbed Luke by the wrist and pulled him into a run back the way they came.

“Go back,” Daniels said quickly. “Hurry. They want us dead. Run!”

Daniels tore his arm away and suddenly spun. Metal struck metal next to Luke’s ear again, and he nearly stumbled. He caught sight of the attacker’s blade, its handle carved like a vulture.

Run!

The word echoed in Luke’s mind. He stepped back and saw them exchange stabs, twisting out of each other’s way. He didn’t stay to watch. He left, bolting as fast as if it were the Daevan military itself.

He realized a few steps later that it was exactly that. The vulture. An assassin of Cathartes. His enemy was right in front of him, and he was running away?

Luke skidded to a halt. Captain Daniels and the assassin were focused on their fight, slashing and striking at one another with a fierce intensity. He hesitated. If their infiltration into Filose was exposed, this was their last chance. If Terra Daeva started using those flutes in combat, how overwhelming would their advantage really be? How long would it take Mirastelle to recover any flutes once the war was in full swing?

That sensation, that color, was not with him right now. He could barely make out that single figure in the distance, still standing by the bus under the moonlight.

Maybe Luke was thinking it through too hastily. Maybe his hatred for the Daevans was clouding his judgment. Or maybe he was just another Flock-galed fool.

Whatever the case, Luke Nixus began running toward the bus.

———

Had they noticed?

Korsak spoke to Wallace as if he were naturally talkative and upbeat, nothing like his usual quiet self. Fauke occasionally chimed in with a comment or two. The talk seemed to be proceeding rather casually.

Cyrus swallowed. Should he pull one of them aside?

“Dad,” he said casually.

To his credit, Korsak responded without delay. “In a minute, son. Swapping stories is part of hunting tradition, too. Listen for a change. Maybe you’ll pick something up.”

“Ah,” Wallace said. “Lad’s not much of a listener, is he? I was like that as a youngster, too.”

“Who wasn’t?” Korsak laughed. “Always hasty, this one, bouncing around. His mother always tells him he needs to listen, too. But does he ever? Aaah. Kids are like the sun rising in the east. Can’t stop ‘em.”

“Sure are as bright, though, eh?” Wallace said. “Never had any kids myself. Not yet, I hope. Haven’t met that special someone.”

“The thing is,” Korsak began, and that was all Cyrus cared to hear.

You need to listen! First at the Wall, now this. People really didn’t want to hear him out, lately!

“Dad, I need to—”

“Lad,” Fauke interrupted. “If you’ve gotta take a leak, just—”

“It’s not that,” Cyrus said stubbornly. “I really—”

His mind blanked as Korsak tackled him, hard. He fell on his backside as an arrow shattered inside the bark of a tree next to his head.

Everything happened so fast. He thought he heard Fauke telling him to stay down. Blood sprayed from Wallace as Korsak’s polearm ran him through. In the next eyeblink, Fauke’s longbow was out and drawn back, returning fire in the direction the arrow had come from. Or had he fired first? It was a whirlwind of events. Cyrus could barely see the shape of a person flicker in the darkness.

“Missed,” Fauke announced. In one fluid motion, he pulled another arrow from his quiver and slotted it, drawing back and loosing. He clicked his tongue. “Missed. She’s good.”

Cyrus’s heart was thundering in his chest. He had nearly died.

“This one’s dead,” Korsak said. Wallace had already collapsed to the ground in a pool of blood, unmoving. The Pruinan giant sounded cold and emotionless, completely unlike the cheerful father persona he had been using just seconds before. “Do we chase?”

Fauke did not answer, standing deathly silent, aiming with a third arrow. He clicked his tongue again and removed the arrow, slotting it back into his quiver.

“Chasin’,” Fauke said. He reached down and help Cyrus stand. It had all happened so fast. He felt dazed. It took him a moment to realize he was running, faster than he could on his own, being pulled by Fauke. Korsak kept pace with them, footsteps thudding over foliage. “That woman’s gonna bring down the whole clippin’ Empire on us.”

———

Deen Daniels fought for his life.

He dodged another thrust of the assassin’s serrated blade rather than parrying it. Parrying was unwise, but he had had no choice with Luke in the way. Two tries since then had left him with bloody scratches down the length of his knife-wielding arm.

Deen’s opponent was a nondescript man with short, dark brown hair and brown eyes, cloaked in ominous robes of crimson-on-black. It had only taken a few seconds to pull together that he was facing one of the infamous Cathartes assassins, arguably Terra Daeva’s most deadly warriors. Swordsmen of the Sirocco Style might be more skilled, but at least you could see them coming. If Deen had not been on heightened alert from what Luke had said, he’d have never seen or heard this person approaching. The boy would certainly be dead. As for himself… it was yet to be determined.

I’d have a better chance with a real weapon. He knew wishing wouldn’t help. He needed to survive with what he had.

A figure raced past them in the darkness, and Deen knew who it was right away. Flocks Above! That ridiculously hardheaded kid was causing trouble for everyone again. Mostly for him.

Deen made his choice. He took advantage of the assassin’s surprise… and bolted in the opposite direction of the bus. Away from Luke.

It tore his heart to do so, but his mission for Ulciscor came first. Thousands, tens of thousands of lives depended on their actions tonight. He had to find the general immediately and escort him to safety. He prayed Luke would only be captured and spared by a merciful soldier, but knew, knew he was most likely leaving the boy to die.

———

That man was still standing quietly in the darkness, hands in his pockets, face impassive as Luke approached.

“I was hoping someone would make it,” he called from afar. Luke drew closer, and he frowned. “A kid?”

Luke said nothing, studying him. Curled, cheek-length blond hair framed a handsome-jawed face adorned with striking blue eyes and a proud nose. The unused sleeves of a military coat slung over broad shoulders swayed in a passing gust behind a set of folded, street-tough arms. Age-wise, he seemed to be in his twenties, or early thirties.

“No, no, no. A kid’s no good. Get out of here.” The blond man waved exaggeratedly and shook his head. The sleeves rustled at his back. He made a shooing motion. “Go. Scram.”

Luke ignored him and glanced at the open back compartment of the bus. There were a number of crates inside, remarkably similar in design to the ones they had brought. Moreover, there were almost as many left as crates of grain back in their automobile. Were these all thunderflutes? How many were there, really?

The two of them were alone, the sounds of Daniels’s battle barely audible at this distance. Luke moved toward the crates, and the man stepped between, smiling now.

“They don’t teach you manners in Mirastelle, do they kid?” He was smiling now, and his voice had raised an octave. Perhaps being ignored had annoyed him. “Adult stuff in there. Right? You get me?”

“Move,” Luke said.

“Move, he says,” the man said, half-laughing. He blinked. “Are you serious? You want to fight me?”

Luke said nothing.

“I mean…” He pulled his hands from his pockets and shrugged. “All right, fine. Come at me.” He put up his arms and raised an eyebrow mockingly. “My name’s Dux. Just so you know, I—”

Green.

Luke loosed himself forward like a string drawn taut. He couldn’t remember moving his legs, only that they did. He drew the small blade inside his cloak with the best grip Aisha had taught him and slashed. To his credit, the cocky man— Dux?— actually dodged the surprise attack, the blade finding only air.

Dux whistled. “Not bad, might have hit me. If I were sleeping.”

Luke gritted his teeth and sliced horizontally.

Then, something happened. Something surreal, sudden. There were glimmers of red lights at Dux’s chest that were not there before. But these lights, they emitted no light, strange as that was. Instead, they moved, up the chest and across the shoulder. Around his arm the lights coiled as if they were serpents, splitting apart, combining, joining and parting like a river through rocks until they covered the hand, wrist, and half of the forearm like a glove. No, that wasn’t quite right. Somehow, Luke could see that the red light was inside Dux, not outside.

Dux raised that arm— inwardly gloved in red— and caught the blade. Luke met resistance so strong it was like it had been clutched in the jaws of a large predatory animal. Easily, far too easily, it was torn from his practiced grip and flipped aside. It clanged to the road a second later.

“You’d better get an adult.”

———

Shame boiled Deen’s blood as he ran. But he had made his decision. He’d made it, and he’d stick to it.

Deen could hear the assassin behind him, comfortably distant, not gaining ground. But how long could he run at top speed like this? It felt like several minutes had passed already. His chest was already starting to hurt. He was still inside the fenced-off shipping compound, but the fence itself was in sight.

Deen’s body was not the only thing stressed. His mind was working overtime, too. On a plan. They had been exposed. That much was clear. He was leading the assassin away from their vehicle, of course, but he was also heading in the general direction Wolf and Aisha were supposed to be coming from. For now, the most important thing he could try to do was ensure Vander Wolf’s safety.

Without that man… the nation would become divided again. Many would call for total surrender in the face of an invasion. Everything they had spent the last nine years building would crumble like a tower of cards. The great Zede Ganymede’s vision of a free, united people would vanish like snow in summer.

Deen’s heart did a somersault. Two guards were stationed directly ahead. A man— skinny fellow— and a broad-shouldered woman. They had already noticed him and his pursuer, and were brandishing long, hefty spears. They looked inexperienced, with poor footing and stances that suggested incomplete or inadequate training.

And he knew just how to make a guard falter.

“Do not let him pass!” Deen shouted in his best captain’s voice, sheathing his knife. He stared intently at the man on the left. “Circle around! Around him! Quickly, man, quickly!”

As the man actually moved, Deen felt as if he’d been blessed by all twelve Flocks. It was an amateur, as he’d hoped and prayed. A fool who thought any other fool barking orders was his boss.

“No!” the assassin cried. Too late.

Sorry about this, Deen thought.

He got inside the range of the woman on the right and slugged her in the side, to her surprise. The female guard crumpled, spear torn from her hands and twirled into his own. Spinning around, he made a wide slash, forcing the assassin to halt his advance.

Deen danced past the Cathartes killer and plunged the spear straight through the male guard, who had only just now put the pieces together. Adrenaline alone fueled him as he savagely struck at the assassin again and again.

He didn’t stop pressing aggressively until the moment his would-be killer took a clean hit where chest met shoulder. The assassin let out a bellow of agony cut short by a spear through the neck.

Deen kneeled for a moment, catching breath he thought he never could. Then, he stumbled toward the skinny guard, falling and scraping his face on the road halfway.

Ripping the man’s shirt took effort, but he managed. He wrapped his arm with a strip of cloth to stop the bleeding. With another piece, he wiped his face, but it probably only smeared blood and debris. The last, the largest, he fashioned into a makeshift belt and slotted his newly acquired spear into it, balancing it accordingly as he stood. Hesitating, he kneeled again and took the dead guard’s spear as well.

To the Bane Below with not having a spear. I’m never going without one again. I’ll sleep with one in my hands. Lyla can complain all she wants.

Deen took a deep breath and stood. He began to make his way toward the fence, slowly this time. If no one had come yet, it would probably take them a few moments. And he really needed to catch his breath. His lungs still burned. He stopped and stared up at the moon. It was a beautiful white crescent, unobstructed by clouds, banishing the darkness around it.

He would sleep, when this night was over. He would survive. He had to, for her sake if not his own. She loved him, though he had no idea why. Lyla often likened him to a proud knight from stories. A capable man with unwavering confidence and an unmatched sense of justice.

That doesn’t sound like me at all, he’d say to her.

But it was who he wanted to be.

Still staring up at the moon, Deen made another decision.

———

Cyrus stumbled and slipped out of Fauke’s grip.

“Get the lad!” the captain snapped.

Korsak pulled Cyrus into well-muscled arms. The lieutenant floored it to catch up to Fauke. The man had already pulled his longbow out again. It wasn’t a desirable position for him, but he wasn’t about to complain. Both of them were much faster than him, and they needed to catch that assassin as soon as possible.

An arrow from the assassin streaked by with a harsh hiss. That was entirely too close. Fauke loosed his own arrow.

“Missed,” he said. “Too much coverage. She’s in a dense pocket. Must’ve attacked from this way because o’ the safety this way. Thought this through.”

“How do you know she’s a she?” Korsak asked.

The thought echoed Cyrus’s own. His mind was starting to work again, he realized. Pines passed them all along his peripheral vision in a rush of wind. He could barely make out a figure ahead, ducking in and out of view. A Cathartes assassin.

“Saw her pretty face before she turned off her lantern. They must have bought the whole flightless hunter thing, to be that careless,” Fauke said. He growled. “They thought we were nothin’ and were plannin’ on killin’ us anyway. That really pisses me off.”

“Stay cool,” Korsak warned.

“I’m stayin’ cool,” he said. “She’s nocking! The lad!”

Korsak pulled Cyrus to the side. If he had had a mustache, the corner hair strands would have been shaven clean off. That’s how close the arrow came, splintering inside a pine tree behind him. The sound of the wind hissing was truly shocking.

Fauke prepared a counterattack, held it, held it… then fired.

“Got her,” the captain said, nocking another arrow. “Shoulder. Go.”

“Protect the lad,” Korsak said, releasing his tight grip on Cyrus’s arm. The Pruinan set the lantern down and raced off into the dense pines with such and speed force it was as if he were a rumbling avalanche plowing through the forest undergrowth.

“Come on…” Fauke muttered, aiming. He loosed. Then he reached for his quiver. “Get behind me, lad. You with me?”

“I’m… I’m with you,” Cyrus said. Was he?

“Stay low. Move when I tell you.”

“Okay.”

In the dim,. Flickering light of their shielded lantern, he could see beads of sweat running down the Guard captain’s forehead. He held his longbow and arrow as steady as a stone, and his face was scrunched up in concentration.

It was by complete chance that he was glancing at Fauke when the man’s head parted from his shoulders. A razor-edged longsword sheared it through like a hot knife through butter.

Fauke’s head hit the forest floor, his body a heartbeat later. His arrow loosed wildly into the distance, missing its mark completely. The darkness of the pines materialized into the shape of a child-faced young man holding a silvery longsword with unkempt blond hair and piercing eyes, scarlet red like the tyrannical emperor’s own. It was as his body were cloaked in the night itself, and the lower half of his face was covered by a black cloth that ended below the nose.

Part of his mind wanted to freeze, to go blank and stop existing, but the other part demanded that he scream in abject horror.

The scream won.

———

Luke knew when to quit. He knew when to give up on a fresh-smelling loaf of bread and run. This was one of those times. Without a doubt.

But that light. It had transfixed him. It was gone, vanished the moment the knife hit the ground. What was it? Some part of him wanted, no, demanded to see it again. To understand it.

He took a simple stance for street brawling. It was all he knew. It would have to do.

“I get it,” Dux said. “Really, kid, I do. Touch the stove to find out it burns. How else are you ever gonna figure it out? I’m like that, too.”

Dux slammed his boot forward and curled a fist.

His expression darkened. “The stove, I mean.”

The light did not appear as he took a swing. Luke tilted his body and set one raised arm to intercept. It hurt, of course, but he’d taken punches from people much bigger than him before. A second punch demanded attention from his second arm. Carefully, he moved out of range before a third came.

Luke threw no punches of his own. That was just a waste of energy. He had to shake this man, somehow. That was the only way to win. Get the shopkeep so mad and focused on you that they don’t notice you slipping food into your clothes as they’re attacking you. Well— there was no way to do that with big, heavy crates full of thunderflutes— but the principle was the same.

Seconds that felt like minutes passed. More blocks, ducks, and close calls than he could count. Still, that light hadn’t appeared. Flocks, there was no way Luke imagined that! Where was it?

Dux backed off suddenly.

“Satisfied?” he asked.

“What?”

“Please,” Dux said. His eyes were almost… pleading. “Just leave. I hate killing kids. You’re gonna die if you stay here. Pica help me, but I’ll do it.” It seemed like he really meant that.

Luke lowered his head. He felt for the color, like strings weaving inside him. It was still there, a vibrant green flowing through his…

…through his legs.

Luke’s eyes opened wide in surprise. His legs were alight with a shimmering dust of green light. And he realized in that instant, whatever Dux had done… he could do it, too.

His legs didn’t feel stronger. In fact, he could feel how weak they were. He could feel the gravelly texture of the road pressing on his shoes, the wind slipping past his exposed ankles. He felt more attuned to his legs than he ever had before, though he knew that didn’t make sense. Your legs were your legs. But they was something more.

He met his enemy’s eyes again, then darted right, to Dux’s side. He felt faster. No… he wasn’t faster. His legs were listening faster. He slid past a punch, then righted himself. Instinctively, the light sheathed his entire lower half for part of the motion, then returned to just his legs, only thin string-like lights leading up his body.

Dux went on the offensive, punching and kicking conservatively. He seemed a skilled fighter; he could tell something was wrong already.

Luke continued to circle, and nearly had his back to the crates. A rock beneath his shoe threatened to unbalance him, but he corrected the imbalance without even stepping off of it. It was then that he knew— wrapped in this inward-facing cloak of pure green, ebbing and flowing as if it were a river of light— he would never stumble.

Before the man even clenched a fist, Dux’s chest began to shine with a light that did not shine. Red, as it was the first time. The lights flowed across his shoulder and through his arm with speed and ferocity like whitewater rapids.

Have to dodge it, Luke thought. No other way.

Use blue.

Instinct took over as the fist flew toward his chest. In a heartbeat, the green shimmered and shrank to dust specks and vanished. A new light materialized around his arms, crossed and raised to defend himself. His brain and his gut both told him to evade this strike, but something had told him to try guarding against it head on instead.

His arms crackled with a sharp sound like trodden frost. Dux’s red lights dissipated on impact. Luke’s blue gauntlets fractured and evaporated into the nothingness it had come from. They both paused and backed away from each other.

Dux stood and stared at his open palm.

Where… did that idea come from? Luke wondered. The blue.

“No,” Dux muttered quietly. He shook his head. “No hesitating. This is your duty.” He clenched his hands into fists, and they both flowed with lightless light, glittering trails of red.

Luke sidestepped the first punch, raising arms freshly coated in blue light to shield his neck. But he had misjudged the angle. The punch was too low. His muscles did not work as quickly as they had when he had used the green light— and he took it in the ribs. Hard. Breath was ripped from him in a harsh, forced gasp, and the sharp, violent pain of fractured bone felt like a stab to his insides. He was thrown backward, smashed into the pile of crates in the back of the bus. Some of them tumbled free, splintering open on the road and spilling their contents.

He lay there, paralyzed atop the pile. His body was parallel to the bus floor, legs dangling off the edge. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think. It hurt so badly.

In between his vision focusing and unfocusing, Luke could see Dux advancing toward him for a third punch, but he couldn’t so much as breathe. The young man towered over him. He wore a grim expression, like a weathered stone. He hated it, but he’d do it.

It was when Luke was frantically realizing he had to move— and finding himself incapable— that he heard rapid footsteps shatter the silence of the moment. It took every ounce of effort he had left just to lower his chin an inch to see who it was. He saw a soldier, dressed in darkness, holding a spear at the ready, and, for some reason, a second spear strapped to his back, sticking out over his shoulder slightly.

Dux turned to address the man, and suddenly rolled out of the way as that spear held aloft sliced the open air where his head had been. His coat slid off as he did so.

The soldier’s face was bloodied and blackened by dirt, but unmistakable nonetheless. Captain Deen Daniels looked as if he were carved of the same weathered stone as Dux, bearing hard eyes, steady breathing, and a sense of rock-solid determination.

“Get away from him.”