The final hour…

  I stand at the foot of the ramp facing the sky, with my marked at my heel. The temperature plummets again from the high-magic mages creating their perfect scenarios for high-velocity wind whips. They sprawl their arms to construct their conjuring, giving me flashbacks of the Danes in the sub-tier dungeons.

  This is it.

  I press against my newly fastened Lacor cuirass, testing my wound under the armor.

  Timing over preparedness.

  We’re next to be launched into the portal—to a tier on the wrong side of the realms.

  Lacor Kingdomonia.

  Peering over my shoulder, I nod to Lay, then to Jurso behind her. On my other side, Renesta stands confidently in her new purple-black mesh armor, and the Lacor native behind her—Nalthir—is a notch humbled. Good. Rogo stands tallest at the end of the row. We all have our gripes, but we’re here, together. And of my marked, these aren’t the same lowly discarded orphans who climbed out of the sub-tier. We’re battle-hardened warriors. Iron ranks with one elite battle under our belts.

  We’ll survive whatever we have to.

  One tap of my hidden pocket reminds me of the vial Casterban slid to me. An Elden portal that allows us to step between the tiers. Does he expect us to fail? Or maybe it’s in case we get split up and can’t all make it out.

  I try not to overthink it. It’s an extra lifeline. And he assured that our mission was among the most dire. Hard to believe, really, with watching riders and knights fly into the bolt portal above us all night.

  Temperatures plummet another ten degrees like a cold snap climbing the sub-tier spire. It pulls me out of my thoughts, as does the sideways rain pelting us again.

  My nerves jitter as the panic of the mages around me grow contagious, but they’re quelled just as fast as I listen to the growls of my roost in my mind’s eye.

  “Iren one, ready!” A knight stamps his spear into the freezing grass.

  A screech and the snap of a wyvern’s long tongue follows from the stables.

  Thmp! Thmp! Thmp!

  It rushes out of the stable as the wind whips from ramp to portal gain in intensity.

  Lyburn—the Lacor Warlock—sits atop it, eyeing us as he slows his mount to a crawl beside us. His long orange beard waves in the winds, and that frown scar shimmers in the dawn’s light.

  “I take it you’ve studied the briefing provided by your father?” His orange glowing eyes make him appear ghoulish.

  “We have,” I announce for my group. “We are to be transferred from Taldun Sanctum to Barrius. We will be portaled to Lacor coordinates in the range forest, away from wards. Thereafter, I am not to reveal my awakened status,” I call over the winds. “Warring dark attunement only.”

  He nods, staring us down one-by-one, landing on Jurso. “Identities.”

  “Last names purged and replaced for Karn, signifying our tier origin, per Lacor sub-tier rules,” Jurso shouts. “First names shortened to our nicknames so no ties can be linked by Miria spies or informed Lacor war-tutors.”

  Lyburn nods again, then lands on Renesta. “Mission?”

  “Primary—locate the origin of Sile’s Bane remnants. Secondary… ascend to onyx rank.”

  He smirks at her. “And to survive.”

  “Of course, sir.” Ren bows.

  In a flash of orange glow, the stomping suit of armor behind us breaks apart and rushes to clamp over the wyvern’s maw and spine, repurposing to fit the beast.

  “Iren one, ready!” the knight calls again, causing Lyburn to yank his reins and face forward.

  “Now, Winbridge,” Lyburn commands as the winds intensify.

  With an explosion of power around each of my forearms, I step forward, prompting the others to create distance between one another before I summon each of my dragons from the ground up. They start ethereal at first, with only the magi saddles lifting my marked. Then, as the warring dark syphons out of me, they manifest fully.

  My back tightens as I measure the extensive exercise of power. I’m careful not to pull any of their elements, focusing only on their existence. This is a flight mission. No battle.

  No threats of more Arkitus.

  I summon the Torn Wing last beneath me, lifting me onto his muscular back. I can feel every movement of his arms, every shift of his massive spine. It feels good to be a rider again.

  “Ready, Boe?”

  He swings his meaty neck, checking his siblings. “I should be asking you that, mortal. Can you hold?”

  “I will.”

  “Hale!” Jurso calls to me atop Dovesier, anguish in his eyes. “We’re going further away from our fallen.”

  “Just to get a running start, Jurso,” I promise.

  “Iren one, go!” the knight announces, and Lyburn leads the charge up the ramp—wind whips slithering about.

  As soon as his wyvern leaps off the edge of the ramp, he explodes toward the portal in a blur. It reminds me of the great wind taking us up the spire. It must be the same magic.

  “Fero two, four, six go!”

  That’s my cue. Our cue.

  My dragons have to hold tight so I don’t lose the tether through the portal. We are all one.

  Inhaling a long breath and holding it, I mentally command Boe forward. I feel the crunch of masonry under his massive claws as he picks up speed. Glimpses of the dragon launching into battle flash into my mind’s eye.

  My face is frozen numb, the raindrops like spears, and the windy pressure pulls us faster as we approach the edge of the ramp. Balancing the symbiotic and antagonistic bonds through each of my arms, I lean forward.

  Whoosh!

  Boeru leaps, and the weight beneath us dissipates as his giant wing beats to stabilize. My eyes immediately dry as the pressure compounds, as I soar up toward the portal. The speed triples, then triples again.

  As the lightning-shaped portal splits into a colorful fissure, I notice a slight tightening around my spine.

  Hold, I tell myself. This is nothing compared to battle.

  The portal swallows us, and I lose my sense of self. I’m nothing but consciousness holding onto the warring dark strings that make up my dragons. The tethers tug and loosen, making me hopeful that we’re all traveling the same plane.

  And when my vision forms again, I hear the grunts of dragons fighting to find balance.

  “Good?” I ask Boe, as he blinks his one blue crystal eye.

  “This plane reeks of pollution.”

  The heavy beating wings at my back force me to turn. Layla and Nalthir look cozy atop Sefene, and I’m happy the dragon hasn’t lost a step since absorbing my Arkitus. Jurso looks curiously down at the rotten trees and snaky sap lines hanging over the forest like a web. Renesta balances over Kelfore, holding her shadowy reins with a disgusted frown. And Rogo takes a deep breath, obviously shaken by the portal.

  “Can we stop going through those fucking things?” Rogo looks pale in the face.

  “Told you all that spice screws with your equilibrium.” Jurso taps his head. “All the bliss in the world couldn’t help you there.”

  “Shut it, runt!” he calls back, and the rest of us cackle.

  Lacor air is slightly foggy with a small bead of a sun. Judging by the enormous Sanctum in the distance to the west, I’d guess we’re in tier one, as planned. Hm. The dark colors and curved spikey architecture screams war far louder than Elshard. It’s intimidating. Then again, how bad could it be if Nalthir survived it?

  Lyburn soars up from nowhere, forcing the dragons to take a hesitant beat back. “Unless you want patrols to pick up unknown dragon spirits, I suggest you follow me, now.”

  His mood drops from commanding militant to angry war-tutor in a flash.

  The wyvern spins in its spindly way, tucking both wings and plummeting, before extending them outward again to glide toward a water bank at the edge of the forest. In a “V” formation, my dragons do the same, stealing my aerial view of the tier. The tightness around my spine gives a bit, which is good. The summoning feels stable, and my sense of it has increased thanks to being granted iron rank.

  Wish I had more time with Scorius to learn…

  Twenty feet from the ground, Boe beats his wing to stabilize, then lands with a chmp in the mud.

  Lyburn hops off his wyvern, and with a wave of his finger, strips the armor to form into his metal guardian once more. “Go.” He extends his arm, pointing to the black sticky forest, dismissing the wyvern rudely.

  It stomps with its head down, angry and shamed. Never thought I’d feel bad for one of those long-tongued beasts.

  As I unsummon my dragons while staring at the wyvern, I’m jolted to attention with a—

  Sllp!

  The rings on Lyburn’s hand sting as they whip across my face.

  “Your folly cost Casterban dearly.” He bares his teeth, keeping that finger in my face.

  My hand instinctively goes to my dagger and chain hanging over my cuirass.

  “Do that here, and I’ll have your throat slit and your body flowing through these murky waters,” Lyburn gestures. “And that goes for all of you. Special treatment ends here.”

  “So tough now that you’re not in Ire territory.” Rogo puffs his chest.

  “Wonder what was holding the big bad Warlock on his leash?” Jurso eyes him curiously.

  “Quiet.” Lyburn commands his guardian of armor to stomp forward, while focusing his attention on Nalthir. “Hand over the vial, prized boy.”

  Prized boy?

  That’s right. On my first day up, Scorius said something about knowing Nalthir’s master. He must be someone important around here, maybe.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Nalthir jerks his hair out of his face. “That’s not how this works.”

  When Lyburn steps forward again, so does Layla, drawing her new magi-resistant shield.

  Renesta raises her hands. “Sir Lyburn is of the inner guard. We have to adhere—”

  Rogo shrugs her off and reaches for his axe.

  I step between all of them. “Stand down. This prick is the one who gave Relias his scars. He’s a sapphire rank or better.”

  “And you’re a transcendent,” Jurso says. “We all read the mission brief. Being shoved around by some Lacor alt-mage was not part of it.”

  Lyburn cackles sarcastically at that. “You’re going to learn to take much more than that here, bliss user. Lacor does not particularly adhere to cadet dignity, as I hear Miria does. And you.” He commands the armor to shove Jurso out of the way and grab Layla by the collar. “You’ll learn the price of drawing a weapon on a Warlock—”

  I grab Lyburn’s wrist and draw Boeru’s dragon fire to heat my hand. Bolstering the pulsing warring dark around my arm ramps up the power to transcendent levels, enough for the armor to fall into a pile of orange-blinking junk while Lyburn grunts and pulls away.

  His arm sizzles, and my eyes smoke with power.

  The whole group stands stunned as Lyburn takes another hesitant step back.

  His breathing labors. He’s in shock that I was able to overcome his high rank resistance, just like I did to Efias. When he comes to, he reforms his guardian by his side—glowing hot orange in some alt-magic rage.

  “Look, Hale. You just added another marked.” Rogo cackles, as does Jurso.

  “Serves your ass right, Warlock.” Jurso wipes off his cuirass from being shoved.

  Lyburn regains his posture, and covers the wound with his robe sleeve. “So what they say is true. A novice with the power of kings. You really can break rank.”

  “I wouldn’t have to if assholes like you didn’t exist,” I say.

  He laughs at that. “If you display power of that magnitude in the Barrius Sanctum, you will be hauled straight up to emergency training in the war-tier, under the care of assassins out of your worst nightmares.”

  “I’d never fight for a faction that breeds mages like you,” I say.

  He sniffs like I’m a clueless kid. “Just like your brother would never become a mindless killer.”

  The words send antagonistic warring dark pulsing through my right arm. As much as Dovesier wants to come out, I have to stuff him down.

  “Relias Drowcastle is just as ruthless, Winbridge. I’m sure your time in the sub-tier dungeons were as horrid as they say. Yet, you cozied up to Elshard just fine afterward, didn’t you?” He’s testing me. “The factions are not black and white. Lacor, in all its ruthlessness, has its pride.” He stares each of us down. “I would die for my kingdomonia still.”

  “Traitor to the Ire?” Rogo folds his arms.

  “Now that he’s out of their sight,” Jurso says.

  “Fools,” Lyburn scowls and bares his teeth. “I’m only here because of my fellow Warlock who discovered remnants of Sile. I’ve seen the afterlife.”

  “As have I,” I say. “I’ve walked it.”

  “Then you know the chaos that can be unleashed.”

  I clench my jaw.

  “All the good in Elshard, all of that you found worth fighting for in the sub-tier—” he gestures to my friends and paces closer “—would be sacked to the storm. They say once you fall within its breadth, you glimpse his true strength… an army with no heartbeat, no souls to plead to, no flesh to skewer, just armor held together by the chaos of oblivion magic. If I didn’t believe in Casterban, I would leave you all here to rot. Hells, I’d even turn you in.” His eyes flash orange. “To leave such a critical mission to such undisciplined, foolish cadets—”

  “We were punished and tempered enough in our houses, Lyburn,” I say.

  “The suffering has only begun,” he assures, digging into his robes for something.

  My marked tense, and then relax when he pulls an empty vial and hands it to Nalthir.

  “Go ahead, prized boy. Follow your protocol.”

  I watch carefully as Nalthir takes a step behind Rogo and pulls his vial of Paronox Silk. Getting to his knees, he cautiously unscrews both, and with a shaky hand, tilts the full one toward the empty one. The way the liquid swirls is unnatural, like a string tugs it into a spiral.

  Nalthir holds his breath with an open mouth as he tries to break the tether of the liquid—my father’s blood—and caps them both without measuring. I guess it’s more critical to keep the substance from being exposed to open air than to worry about quantity.

  To my surprise, Nalthir rises and hands Lyburn’s half-full vial to me.

  “Give it here, Winbridge.” Lyburn holds out his hand.

  I hold, nodding to Layla to take out our mission parchment.

  “You’d best burn that before the boat comes.” Lyburn flares his nostrils.

  I take the parchment and read off the bullet points that are relevant, “Warlock Lyburn, assigned escort from Taldun Sanctum to Sanctum Barrius. His intermediary approval will be the only way to access the importer for approval.” I look up at him. “You need this to exit Lacor and return to the side-tier.”

  “Obviously. Withholding it would be to put the entirety of the Ire at risk.” He frowns angrily, scar reaching his chin.

  “You’ll get it when you do your part,” I say. “We may be posing as cadets, Warlock, but we’ve sacrificed as much as anyone for the Ire, and will not be suffering anymore of this treatment.”

  “You’d risk the rower seeing the hand off,” Lyburn says.

  I glance at the asterisk at the bottom of the parchment. “This is our mission, which is why we were entrusted a vial of Paronox. Despite your obvious proclivity to stomp over your cadets, you’ll soon realize we’re not them. None of the Ire have given me confidence that I should be bowing to any of you, either. My Prominent is the only one who’s earned my respect, and that was in Elshard. The rest of you? Treat me like a diseased beast. We’ll forge our own path from here. And you can report back to Casterban that we’ll adhere to the mission, because our goals are aligned, and nothing more.” I flip the vial in my grasp and place it in my pocket.

  A bit of the dragon’s aggression surrounds me, I know. But at a certain point, we have to stop being trampled. The focus has to be on ascendance, and figuring out if my marked can also transcend rank. Break these barriers down and find out what the other side of the realm is all about.

  For the next hour, we memorize the long parchment, asking each other questions and figuring how hard it will be to identify remnants of Sile. Renesta revealed the clear liquid vial that would apparently glow in the vicinity of a remnant. So at least we have an indicator.

  “Burn it.” Lyburn stomps over to us, whispering angrily as his gaze remains far on the foggy lake. “Now.”

  We’ve had our time with it, so I crumble the parchment in my hand and activate a low flame to incinerate it.

  “Appear disgruntled,” Lyburn coaches. “And under no circumstance show your marks.”

  I slip the vial to Jurso without anyone noticing, and do what I’m told.

  Lyburn commands his suit of armor to take steps into the swampy lake and draw his orange glowing sword to act as a flare.

  “Remember. No one likes to be traded. If you are, that means you were used as a negotiable means between sanctums. It also means you have developed value at your origin sanctum, which is difficult to leave behind.”

  “What’s to stop the Barrius from looking into our tenure at Taldun? Won’t they find we were never there?”

  Lyburn growls. “Lower your voice. The rower can hear for miles.”

  I nod.

  Lyburn sighs and goes on, “Tier one of Lacor simulates actual war. The sanctums are enemies and do not divulge information. Spies give some stolen intel to each, but the sanctum leaders are still mostly in the dark. Transferees also often change names. They’ll know you’re all sub-tier due to your Karn alias, but nothing more.”

  “Alright.” The logic is sound. “So, the Ire has the high view picture of tier one, because we have spies from all sanctums.”

  “Correct,” Lyburn agrees reluctantly. “And of course, the higher tiers have a grand view of the inner workings. But yes, the Ire probably has the most details, since tier one spies are able to exchange information freely in the side-tier.”

  A creaking resounds from down the lake.

  “Ahk!” Jurso slaps his own arm. “Can we get going, please. These bugs love my bliss blood.”

  “Quiet. She approaches.” Lyburn raises to full height and walks to the edge of the bank.

  I steal Dovesier’s sharp sight to glimpse the wavering canoe being guided by a blindfolded woman holding one long fin-like paddle. Her arms are thinly muscular, lathered with oil. Lips cracked despite the warm air.

  “Remember your directive, Winbridge,” Lyburn warns. “No inklings of being an awakened. There’s too few to remain hidden.”

  I stuff that magi deep down, taking a glimpse of the dragons in my mental plane circling a crimson mountain far away. To my right, Renesta bolsters her intensive warring dark, bubbling the shadows beneath our feet to take attention away from my presence.

  “Ah, curious they sent you today, Lyburn,” the woman’s voice carries smoothly through the waters. “I haven’t sensed your presence beneath me in a long while.”

  “My whereabouts are not your concern, rower.” Lyburn doesn’t even seem like he’s acting.

  “Testy today.” She smiles. “Not even to greet me by my name.”

  “This infested forest is not where I expected to spend my day, Glavia.”

  She hoots. “Retirement from the war-tier never suited you, and now I’m beginning to think retirement from the Warlock’s Den doesn’t either.”

  He scoffs comically at that. “Coaching a bunch of angry teenagers to survive in the wild is not what I would consider good work. I’d rather just help them along when I’m called upon, and live my days mastering the ways of transmogrification so that mythos might be more conclusive one day.”

  “A noble path after compressing the faces of Miria’s finest soldiers.”

  I clench at that. Thinking of the cadets of Elshard getting killed by a pissy elite like Lyburn makes me question my allegiance. I wonder what happened to the others who were left behind too. Tesstalia, Jenny, and all of the pledges who stayed true up until the battle. What happened to them?

  “Whenever Lyburn was sent to battle, Miria knew not to wear enchanted armor.” Glavia hoots.

  “Olden days.”

  “Indeed. Now look at us.” She spreads one arm, gnats bouncing all over her body. “Come, give me your official signet. War-scout Sorenhold awaits his shipment.” She uses the oar to bring her canoe as close to land as possible.

  Lyburn walks over, brightening his palm with an orange mark I have no knowledge of.

  “Cleared.” She nods. “Dark critters you bring me today. Hm… with a tinge of light. And what’s this? A stone-waller?”

  Lay and I side-eye one another. Glavia was able to sense that she’s an anti-mage just by the air we breathe.

  “Yes, an eclectic bunch. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to my scribbling.”

  “Always good to sense you, Burn.”

  “Likewise.” Lyburn bows and backs away.

  “This way, cadets. I imagine the intricate mind-wiping process leaves you all moody and groggy.” Glavia helps Renesta on first, as I give the signal for Jurso to hand the vial to Lyburn.

  “It has, ma’am.” Jurso takes her hand next.

  “For good reason. We can’t have you divulging the Taldun secrets to Barrius now, can we? That would defeat the whole exercise.” She smiles.

  Once we’re all in, Glavia pushes off the shore edge and rows us into the fog. I stare at Lyburn on our way out, and he offers me a nod for keeping to our deal.

  The ride is pleasant enough save for Jurso smacking bugs off his skin left and right. Glavia likes to speak, and fills us in on all we have to know as beginners to the Barrius Sanctum. The rank up system is similar enough to Elshard—win battles, clear events. But there’s something new… distress. Tests of wits and conquering fears is a big practice in Barrius, apparently. Glavia talks so much, I wonder if she’s secretly part of this whole Ire mission. Doubt it, though.

  After we clear the lake and funnel into a canal, the fog clears, revealing waterfalls on either side unloading into a turbulent ocean. The atmosphere is grey from the clouds above, and sections of the canal reek of sulfur.

  Glavia lifts her oar and lets the current take us, Jurso sighing with relief from the breeze taking all the insects with it.

  I worry about him more than all the others.

  “He will endure, mortal,” Boeru speaks in my ear.

  “Shouldn’t you be hiding right now?” I say. “Don’t make me block you off.”

  “Glavia’s scent is not of this realm.” He sniffs again just to be sure.

  “The Ire?” I stare at her back as she lifts her head to take in the breeze.

  “Miria.”

  I almost laugh aloud. What are the chances she’s a spy? Then I tense. “Gods. Does that mean she might know who I am—”

  Now Boe laughs. “I imagine the empire is larger than your little sanctum, with many tiers of cities and war among it.”

  I calm down slightly. He’s right. Even though I’m one of few newly awakened, there are bigger pieces at play in the upper tiers. Then again…

  “We struck an elite, Boe. The entire sanctum and all of its donors watched it happen.”

  “If you are to let paranoia rule you again, we will gain no progress here,” Boe chuffs. “Tuck your head and that ridiculous hair inside your cowl, and announce yourself as a Karn. No one will be the wiser unless you summon us.”

  “You think you’re the famous one, then?”

  Boe lifts his chin in my mind’s eye, as if to say, “of course.”

  I smirk, heeding the advice and throwing my hood up.

  My breath hitches from the expansive gate becoming visible in the distance.

  “Mm. We approach. I do not like the smell of Lacor. I never did.” Boe retreats further into my mind. “Prepare yourself.”

  We flow violently out of the canal mouth and into the next lake, where Glavia sticks her oar gently into the water to guide our teetering canoe.

  “We’re here.” Her face remains straight as she peers up to the star signet glowing resplendent on the roof of a very high gate. The bars are thick like tree trunks, leading to a cave-like ceiling seventy feet skyward.

  She holds up her hand, displaying Lyburn’s signet on her palm, causing the waters beneath the gate to bubble. Great vibrations rock the canoe, prompting everyone to hold onto the edges.

  Shhnk!

  Bars with sharp harpoon-like edges shoot up from the water, cranking in place with just enough space for us to duck beneath them. Debris from the disturbed ceiling trickles into the lake, causing Glavia to dunk her ore into the water to stall us.

  All of us exchange looks between one another, except for Nalthir, who seems paler than usual.

  “What?” I narrow my eyes at him.

  His lips tighten, and he only shakes his head. He’s hiding something, and may be wise for keeping his mouth shut in front of Glavia, but if we’re in danger, I need to know.

  We filter past the gate, where the sanctum is finally revealed above us, sitting on a peninsula. Black marble spires stretch to the sky, with curved edges that look like scythes on either side. The base is huge, detailing a fine castle. We’re floating under its foundation on some kind of moat, taking a rounding path to the other side.

  Now Nalthir’s sweating.

  “What?” I say again.

  “Didn’t know it’d be him,” he finally says through gritted teeth.

  The boat rocks to a stop, and our gazes are forced upward, to a man hanging off a stone balcony with long black hair and a streak of missing skin that shows too many of his teeth up his left side.

  “As promised.” The man summons tentacles writhing at his back.

  “A beastborn,” I surmise.

  “A terrible one,” Glavia agrees, snapping her tongue.

  The tentacles disappear, and the water beneath us rumbles.

  “Well, that’s my cue to go. Farewell.” Glavia sticks her oar into the water and flexes, readying to row in the other direction.

  Does she plan to shove us overboard?

  Krchr! Krchr!

  The tentacles snap from the waters, latching around each of us.

  The whiplash is intense. My whole chest stings from the slap, and my organs feel crushed as the thick greenish-black tendril constricts. Every instinct in my body says to fight it—to let loose my dragons. But that would just make this worse.

  Glavia doesn’t even give a second glance as she scurries away.

  Coward.

  We’re lifted to great heights, past the balcony where the crazed beastborn relishes in our pain. Then we slap hard against the wall, side-by-side, overlooking the sanctum.

  Here begins our fucking mission.