The girl’s death was not an option. Every person in the warband knew this without needing anyone to speak it aloud. The tension in the ruined courtyard was sharp and quiet. Loose dust floated in the still air like it was too afraid to settle.

  Azandra hung in the center of the shattered temple, her body suspended above the ground as if held by invisible ropes. Her eyes remained closed, her hair drifting slowly as if she was underwater. The thin beam of blue light that wrapped around her pulsed like a slow heartbeat.

  Maruzan’s eyes kept returning to her. She was the reason they had come this far. She was the reason they had pushed their bodies past their limits for days. He could not let this end here. Not with her dying in a place that looked like it had been forgotten for centuries.

  He turned to Nethira and spoke in a low, steady voice. “Can you reach into your visions. See anything that can help us.”

  Nethira swallowed. Her hands were already trembling. “I can try. But you know what it does to me. You know it leaves me tired in a way I cannot hide.”

  “I know,” Maruzan said. “But we need you. If there is any chance your visions can guide us, you have to take it.”

  She hesitated. For a moment she looked like a child unsure whether to step into cold water. Then she gave a small nod. “I will do what I can.”

  Maruzan stepped out into the middle of the stone platform. His sword stayed drawn, but his voice rose clearly toward the dark presence that lingered in the ruins.

  “You did not bring her here to kill her,” he called. “If she meant nothing to you, she would already be dead.”

  The voice answered from everywhere. It came from the broken stones. From the shadows under the arches. From the very air.

  She has served her purpose.

  The voice was low and patient. Too patient. As if it had waited years for this moment.

  Maruzan shot a hand signal behind his back without looking. The group shifted closer to Azandra. Not enough to draw attention, but enough that they would be able to grab her the moment the bond weakened.

  He glanced to Winnum. “Wake her,” Maruzan ordered.

  Winnum froze. His breath caught in his throat. His hands twitched at his sides like he wanted to run, not step forward. His thoughts raced. What if the light failed him again. What if he reached for it and found only emptiness. What if he watched another life slip through his fingers.

  But then he remembered his brother. He remembered the cold skin, the still chest, the words he had whispered into his hands as if they would bring the boy back. He remembered walking out of the temple because he could not stand to be told again that he had done his best. His best had not been enough.

  He swallowed the fear and stepped forward.

  He knelt beneath Azandra. He lifted his palms and whispered words that felt old and cracked. A soft glow rose in his hands. It was faint at first, like a spark trying to live. Then it steadied. He reached for the girl with that light.

  Azandra’s fingers twitched, just barely.

  Before the warband could react, the sorcerer’s voice slid back into the air.

  One question. Why would I want you here.

  A figure stepped out of the dimness.

  The man was tall and thin, wrapped in robes the color of midnight. The cloth looked as if it swallowed the light rather than reflected it. A long staff was held in his hand, its head shaped like a twisted branch of starfall iron. His face was hidden beneath a hood, but his outline was solid. Real. Not a projection. Not a spirit.

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  Nezzarod was here. In the flesh.

  A heavy pressure pressed down on the group. It felt like wading through deep water. Limbs grew sluggish. Even thoughts slowed. Farrin’s breath hitched. Bram’s knees bent slightly as if his body considered falling.

  Maruzan forced himself to stand tall, though the weight dug into his shoulders like stone.

  His mind whispered: He is stronger than we guessed.

  Nethira suddenly gasped. She staggered as something like a pulse hit her mind. Her eyes widened as if she were seeing a whole other world layered over the ruins.

  Her fingers tightened in her palms. She had asked for a vision. Now it came like a wave breaking over her.

  The present faded.

  Nethira stood inside a grand stone chamber bathed in white light. A circle of mages stood with their hands raised toward a man in black. The robe was the same robe. The voice the same voice.

  Nezzarod.

  He was younger in this vision. His face visible. His eyes bright with fury. The half circle of mages shouted warnings toward him.

  “Nezzarod, think. You cannot take that power for yourself,” one of them pleaded.

  “You do not understand what waits beyond the veil,” another cried.

  He raised his arms high.

  “Move aside,” he said.

  The chamber filled with blinding red and orange. Fire burst from his hands. The mages screamed. Their bodies caught the flame. Nethira tried to look away but she could not. The vision forced her to watch.

  The scene melted like wax under a flame.

  Now she stood outside a forest clearing. Ancient dryads lined in ranks, their armor grown from bark and living vines. Their faces were stern, sad, prepared. Nezzarod and his followers fought against them. Magic collided in the air. The dryads chanted long forgotten words.

  A cage of light grew around Nezzarod. He fought against it. His face twisted. His voice roared through the forest.

  The light held. It sealed.

  The scene shifted again.

  Now Nethira stood in a brilliant city of stone and branches. A temple rose before her. Dragons wheeled above. Not beasts. Not wild. They were shaped like tall men in shimmering scales. Then in bursts of soft light, they shifted into dryads. There was harmony between the races.

  A group of dryads approached the sealed chamber where Nezzarod was trapped. They placed stones marked with runes around the barrier. Their voices sang a ritual together. A lock formed in the air. A lock that was meant to hold him for centuries.

  The vision changed once more.

  The temple cracked. Walls collapsed. The lock shattered. A deep echo rolled through the ruins. Nezzarod stepped into freedom. His robes darker than before. His face older, marked by rage and ambition.

  Then all the images shattered.

  Nethira fell back into her body, her breath coming fast and shallow. She shook. Sweat rolled down her temples.

  Maruzan caught her arm. “What did you see.”

  She opened her mouth. No sound came out. Then she forced the words.

  “He was imprisoned here,” she whispered. “The dryads sealed him. Dragons helped. This place once held him. It held him for a long time.”

  Maruzan looked sharply toward the sorcerer. “So he came back to the ruins that failed to hold him.”

  Nezzarod tilted his head slightly. Even without a visible face, there was something like amusement in the motion.

  I go where I choose, Maruzan of Elzibar.

  Winnum stood, trembling, still trying to break the spell that wrapped around Azandra. “Let her go,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

  Nezzarod did not answer him. He addressed the group as if they were a single creature.

  Your purpose is simple. One of you carries something I require. A relic born of dreams. A fragment of a dragon’s mind. Bring it to me, and the girl lives.

  Velthur’s face flashed in Maruzan’s mind. The tooth. The relic in his possession back in the college.

  Maruzan’s stomach tightened. This entire event was a trap. The disappearance. The ruin. The girl suspended like a lure.

  Nethira steadied herself. Her voice wavered but she still managed to speak. “If you take that relic, if you take the dreams inside it, you will gain the power that was denied to you. You will tear this land apart.”

  Nezzarod raised his staff. The blue light around Azandra brightened until her face shone like stone under lightning.

  I do not want to tear this land apart. I want to reshape it. I want to return it to the world that should have been.

  Maruzan felt the ground shift. Nethira slipped behind him, falling to the ground. A decision pressed against him. He had to move soon. He had to act.

  But Nezzarod lifted one hand. The air stilled again.

  Bring me the dreamer’s relic. Or this girl dies before you reach the trees.

  No one spoke.

  The choice hung before them like a blade.

  And behind that choice was a shadow that stretched far beyond the ruins.

  It was the beginning of a new war.