The capital no longer slept.

  Dareth burned in sections now—controlled fires meant to contain greater ones. Atmas roamed openly, drifting through walls, whispering madness into unguarded minds.

  Arin stood in the palace training yard at dawn, Kael opposite him.

  “Again,” Kael said.

  Arin lunged, blade flashing. Kael parried effortlessly, twisting the weapon from Arin’s grip and sending him to the stone.

  “You hesitate,” Kael said.

  “I’m not trying to kill you.”

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  “You won’t be fighting me.”

  Arin rose, frustration tightening his chest. “There has to be another way than becoming like it.”

  Kael’s expression hardened.

  “You think I fight because I enjoy blood?”

  He stepped closer.

  “I fight because I remember fire.”

  Arin saw it then—not hatred.

  Grief.

  Before he could respond, the palace bells rang frantically.

  A surge of Atmas poured through the outer gates.

  Not wandering.

  Coordinated.

  The Veil was weakening faster.

  And something was guiding the spirits now.