In my mind’s eye, I’m running through an impossible maze. The walls stretch and contract all around me, the movement making me feel disconcertingly like I’m tumbling through the inside of a pair of lungs—expanding and constricting with each rabid breath. The uncanny angles and precipitous drops remind me of the Labyrinth, a locale unmoored from the laws of reality.

The dreamscape hallways elongate in strange, unsettling ways. Doors that look like they’re well within reach don’t draw any closer despite what feels like an hour of breathless sprinting. Abruptly, the floor drops away, turning into endless recursive spirals of flashing light and color. Vibrant images play across the surface of the walls, flickering as though illuminated by candlelight, and from the chaotic interplay, order emerges.

With mounting horror, I watch my past self in sudden clarity. In my memory, I’m gallivanting about in the countryside between Silaraon and Peliharaon. The ambush that pushed me toward more martial pursuits plays out in a flash, and soon the images reveal Ember’s grim, determined face as she stands over the corpse of the shadow jaguars, protecting me at my weakest—just like she always has.

The images flicker again; a new memory unfurls. I watch my excursions to the Silaraon City Academy and my eye-opening lessons with my wise mentor, Ezio. Our enlightening and challenging discussions skim over the polished stone surface of the memory maze. New images flow by with every second: My pain and pride when I push through the mana control test. My determination to improve my numbers. My willingness, at long last, to embrace my birthright and use mana with enthusiasm and confidence, no longer terrified of the debilitating effects of the mana plague.

Flicker. Again, new scenes play out in my mind, and this time I'm practically fainting with excitement as I meet my childhood hero Tem Cytekin for the first time. I observe, spellbound, while my memories play. I learn the beginnings of mapcraft, tracking him through the wilderness outside of Silaraon as he leads me right into a trap. Not even the distance of time takes anxiety out of the moment; I still shudder as the jaws and claws rend my skin before I managed to put the monster down for good.

Then our first encounter with the wraiths scrolls by. Blood and ichor stain the images in a tableau of violence that makes me queasy to relive. When the tenebrous form of the wraith commander charges toward my hiding spot, I instinctively duck to protect myself. I was even more useless in retrospect than I thought I was. Without Tem to save me, that would have been the end.

Flicker. When Tem and I reach the Rift entrance in my walk through the maze of my memory, I shake my head in chagrin at our stupidity. Like fools, we plunge through the portal to explore the wounds between the worlds. Sneaking, looting, plotting—and then the desperate flight in the depths of the Labyrinth.

By the time we finally get through the replay of infiltrating the control room, stealing the portal device, and detonating the charges to destabilize the labyrinth and prevent further incursions, present-day me is a tattered ball of fear. I feel like my nerves have become twisted coils of barbed wire, and someone is pulling them out through my bare skin.

I can't shed any tears here in the liminal space of my memory, but I still feel the pang of sorrow when Tem turns back in the Labyrinth, fighting off the Captain and urging me to run free. Trudging back to Silaraon alone was one of the hardest things I have ever done.

The rest of the projection flows by in a blur: I relive my glass-making breakthroughs, achieving the First Threshold, and my eventual imprisonment and escape attempts. When I see myself sneaking over to the Silaraon City Academy to speak with Ezio, a furtive expression on my face, I fight hard against the [Inquisitor]’s intrusive Skill. Panic wells up in my chest like high water behind a dam, threatening to burst. I can’t implicate my friend; I can’t reveal what he knew.

I squirm, wrestling against the Skill’s compulsion. It feels wrong to give away the secret of the navigation device we stole from the Labyrinth. Objectively, I recognize that they already know about its existence. I had to tell Lady Evershed about the artifact. Yet some stubborn part of me still clings to the idea that I can use the PPP to find Tem. If I give up and let them know my real purpose for keeping it, then I will tie my fate to a man labeled a traitor.

My reticence to share the PPP until I know more about what it does and what’s at stake is noble, not selfish, I assure myself. Then why do I still feel so uneasy?

Abruptly, the pressure abates, and I’m no longer fighting the Skill. The images in my mind stutter, then leap ahead. After my scuffle in the basement of the Silaraon City guard barracks, and my mad dash to get out of the city, my feet on fire and fear frothing in my heart, the memories cut off roughly.

I collapse to the floor, spasming and gasping for breath. Needle pricks of agony walk down my scalp. A boot edges under my ribs and flips me over, knocking the wind out of me. I stare up into [Chief Inquisitor]’s Xharrote eyes, my whole body rigid with terror.

I want to scream. I want to rise up in righteous fury and demand that he stay out of my head without my express permission. But I still can’t speak.

The [Inquisitor] chuckles, practically wheezing at a joke only he finds funny. “You are one mule-headed boy. Thankfully for you, ‘stupid’ isn’t a prosecutable offense. I can't believe the [General] wasted so many resources tracking you down. But what in all the skies and seas possessed you to keep back further memories? You could save us all a lot of trouble by coming clean.”

I growl an unintelligible reply. His eyebrows shoot up, and then he sighs. His open hand lifts up and chops toward me like a blade; the mana bindings around my mouth fall away, cut in half by only his intent and presence, or so it seems.

This is the kind of power those in the Third threshold wield?

“It’s better if you just tell us what you’re hiding,” the [Chief Inquisitor] grumbles. “From what I’ve seen so far, you didn’t have anything to do with the charges against you. Breaking out of prison was foolish, but forgivable given your circumstances. Still, without your sponsor, you are probably facing charges for withholding information that could assist with essential military endeavors. I don't think there's any way you're going to get out without at least some time served in the dungeon, not unless you can prove that you’re worth more to us if you’re not incarcerated.”

I perk up at that statement, scratching my beard as I ponder his words. With reluctance, I swallow the angry retort I composed in my mind, and instead ask a more humble question. “Any suggestions on what I can do to enhance my worth?”

[Inquisitor] Xharrote regards me like a lazy housecat weighing his interest in putting forth effort to chase a mouse. He yawns, his eyes squeezing shut and his head tilting back. For several heartbeats he says nothing. His eyes open, and he shrugs. “That’s not my place to say, Nuri. You must understand that I’m not your ally. In fact, I’m neither friend nor foe; my job is simply to uncover the truth.”

I scoff at him. “Is this the part where you tell me how much easier this will go for me if I give you everything you want to know?”

A dry, low chuckle rattles out of [Inquisitor] Xharrote. “Cooperation is always preferable. I have my methods for extracting information, as you saw. But I don’t want to overtax your mind.”

“Generous of you,” I mutter.

“No trouble at all,” Xharrote assures me smoothly. “I’ll be back to speak with you more, particularly once you’ve had more of a taste of Scalpel’s rather off-putting ministrations.” He frowns. “Why we permit her to continue is beyond me. Regardless, I suspect you'll change your mind soon, if only to get out of this place.”

“Why am I here, anyway? Scalpel . . . that woman is terrifying,” I say, hugging my arms around my body as I shiver.

“Indeed,” Xharrote says. “Harwich tried to hide you from me. He has his fingers in too many pies, eh? A young man with a foot in our world and a foot in hers. But as the two pull apart, he’ll have to make a choice—or be split right down the middle. A shame, really. I would have liked to process you before that thing got her claws on you.” He copies my shudder, although it seems more theatrical than genuine; the disgust never seems to touch his eyes.

“Harwich,” I echo, raising my eyebrows. “That’s the name of the miserable [Adjutant]?”

[Chief Inquisitor] Xharrote snorts through his nostrils, blowing out a stream of steam. “You traveled with him for six weeks and you never learned his name? Not the most observant person I’ve ever met.”

I shrug one shoulder. “He’s not exactly a people person. I mostly just tried to stay out of his way and not get into any further trouble.”

“Ah. Shrewd. Perhaps you’re not entirely witless,” Xharrote allows good-naturedly. He touches his fingertips together to make a tent with his hands and leans forward as though he’s going to share a secret with me. “I understand why Casella turned in a rather positive report on your case. You certainly don't seem like a threat, although I will get to the bottom of whatever is going on. You can’t hide information from the crown forever.”

“I’m not hiding—”

“Lies,” Xharrote says calmly, cutting me off. He pats my shoulder. “I like you, Nuri, but I have to be thorough—and I’m biased. There are too many powers competing for your time and attention. We’ll have more sessions together soon, and I fully intend to see you remanded into [Inquisitor] custody full time. Do try to survive until then. Now, any last questions?”

My curiosity gets the better of me at last. I meet Xharrote’s eyes, and take in a deep breath to fortify myself as I prepare for the answer. “Only one question. Who won?”

“The war? It’s a slog; we’re still in the early stages,” the [Chief Inquisitor] replies, his brow furrowed. Then he brightens and snaps his fingers. “Of course! You mean the glass competition. I shall happily give you the answer at our next meeting.”

“Aren’t you the head of the [Inquisitors]? You ought to know these things already,” I say, crossing my arms and leveling a defiant glare at him.

“Oh, I know. But if you’re going to withhold memories, then so am I. Trade next time?” He winks, and his self-satisfied smirk fades from view, disappearing from my consciousness despite my best effort to fix him in my mind. His stealth Skill reminds me of Mbukhe’s, but more advanced.

Relief floods me when he departs. I sink down to my knees, then curl up in a ball on the floor of my room. For a long moment, I lay shivering on the floor, trying to collect my scattered thoughts. A small, irrepressible smile plays across my lips. I’m not sure if it's because I’m free from the [Inquisitor]’s overwhelming presence, or if it’s because I’ve caught a glimpse of a way out of Scalpel’s clutches.

I pull myself up and sit against the wall as a new idea worms its way into my mind. Is leaving here now, with my Skills still in disarray, actually worth it? Scalpel is an evil woman—no doubt about it; I hope her house burns down around her head, I think with a growl—but she is the best chance I have of fixing myself, inside and out.

I cherish that thought, holding it close like a drowning man clutching at anything that will keep him above water. My only fear is that instead of a floating log, I’ve latched onto an alligator in the misplaced hope that it will drag me to the safety of the shore. The more likely scenario is that it devours me instead.

A soft groan slips out as I lean my head back against the wall and consider my options. All I really want to do is get back to making glass, but it seems that I’m stuck playing someone else’s game a little while longer. Surely, there has to be a better way.