A quiver ran through the dense muscles of Mikhail’s dusty brown horse as she placed each hoof with reluctance amongst the pine needles littering the forest floor. Since entering the forest with Yuri, the mare had kept him firmly centred on a path mostly free of pine needles and wide enough for the two to ride abreast. Yuri rode ahead—perhaps embarrassed—as no amount of coaxing had convinced Mikhail’s horse to leave the middle of the path. Not even an approaching cart laden with injured Warriors. When he’d tried to guide her to the side, she’d frozen, leaving the disgruntled Warriors no choice but to squeeze between her and the firs.

  Above them, birds screeched, their harsh cries echoing through the chill air and melding with the chittering of insects and rustle of animals in the undergrowth.

  It’d taken two hours to extract the gate location from, in the end, a merchant in Krepost Lozvinsky. After some proper motivation, the man had pointed them to a trail leading to the temporary fortifications being established around a gate that’d opened in the eastern forest.

  Mikhail had only once before been in a forest. In Serovnya they only grew on the northeastern reaches of the country, in the shelter of the mountain range that bordered the coast. Most Serovnya was nothing but tundra, kept bare by the torturous cold the near constant wind carried with it. Even in the height of summer, frosts still crusted the ground at night.

  Here? He hadn’t even bothered to pull up his hood or wear his half-mask. And grass. Green grass everywhere, trees taller than buildings, birds that lived off more than the flesh of other creatures.

  And yet, despite the wonder of the place, it all felt grey and dead to him.

  In just a few minutes, he’d see the creature who used his mother’s body as its own.

  “You’re sure Kraemer was telling the truth?” Yuri asked for the third time—or perhaps the twentieth, Mikhail couldn’t remember anymore.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Mikhail said. “I gave him enough incentive to tell the truth.”

  Yuri blew out a sigh. “You’re fortunate I had some Novagrad vloysh left. I nearly drank it all after your sister… insisted I fly to Katavsk.”

  “It was a gamble.”

  “Sure. Remind me to never hire you to do my negotiations.”

  Ahead of them, the trees thinned. A faint clank of metal on metal and raised voices joined the sounds of nature, growing louder with every minute.

  Soon they left the trees for a wide clearing. The centre of which hung a forty-foot-tall shimmering emerald oval, suspended in the air several feet above the ground. The ground looked like it’d been churned ready for planting a crop—except for the enormous lumps of rock mixed in with it.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Tents ringed the tree line, and a barricade was half constructed at the edge of the churned ground. Men and women wearing grey Warrior Guild coats hurried about, each focused on whatever task they’d been given.

  Mikhail noticed a few blue coats of Alchemists and tried to ignore the powerful urge to hide behind his half-mask and hood. But that would make him stand out more. No one else in the clearing wore half-masks or hoods.

  Then he saw a flash of sunlight reflecting off white hair. His hearts pounded in his chest and his throat constricted. Mikhail slipped off his horse, landing with a clumsy thud. Yuri took the reins from him without a word and Mikhail picked his way through the camp, ignoring the glances from Warriors.

  He stepped around two beefy Warriors carrying a large crate and saw her.

  The short, white-haired Alchemist stood with her back to him at a table, her hands flying across the surface as she assembled something. Her hands froze, and she looked up. Then turned.

  It certainly looked like her. Soft features padded by a love of sugar, kind smile, and eyes that glittered with intelligence.

  “Mikhail,” Elana Koskova said and dipped her head in greeting.

  Then turned back to her work.

  Mikhail stumbled to a halt. The brusque greeting aching more than his slowly healing rib. “Mother?” he said, his voice catching.

  “Yes, dear?” she said, still focused on the Alchemtek on the table before her.

  Anger wrapped its fingers around his hearts and he marched up to her. This wasn’t his mother. His mother would never brush him off like that. Mikhail grabbed her arm and yanked.

  Elana didn’t move.

  He might as well have tried moving a building.

  “A few more minutes, Mikhail, I’m busy.”

  Mikhail stomped around the table, coming to a halt in front of her. He reached out and swiped everything from the table. Glass shattered and metal thumped against the dirt.

  Elana looked up, her normally pleasant, round face twisting into a snarl. “No. He’s not always this rude,” she said, looking through Mikhail. She folded her arms and focused on him. “What is so important that you have to destroy a week’s worth of work? That was an explosive I was developing, you could have killed yourself.”

  But not you? “What have you done with my mother?” he asked, trying to keep the tremor from his voice.

  Elana blew out a sigh and shut her eyes. Her face sagged, and she seemed to deflate, looking years older. When she opened her eyes, they were dull and tired. But she smiled at him. A genuine smile.

  “We have a lot to talk about,” Elana said. She hesitated a moment, then waddled around the table and wrapped her arms around his waist, her head coming up to his chin.

  Frustration melted from Mikhail and he held his mother tight, his jaw clenched as he fought back tears. Then he stiffened and pushed away. No, this wasn’t his mother.

  “You have some explaining to do,” he whispered.

  The pain in her eyes nearly broke him as she nodded and turned, leading him toward a tent. Stay strong, he told himself. The uzhas is just trying to manipulate you.