The air thickens in this closed circular room as an axe is magically held to a brute’s throat. Wind intensifies around the hostage like an invisible storm wields the weapon, sending the brute’s hair whipping every which way.

  We dare not move.

  The Dane standing in the center is calm despite his threat, slowly shifting his gaze, judging the lot of us. Any one of us could be next.

  Every part of me wishes I had the power to end him.

  “Remember, mortal. He is the key to understanding our bond,” Boeru assures. “For centuries they interrupt our thoughts with their ceremonies. Annoying insects, but ones we must let crawl in our ears. It is they who work these bonded connections firsthand.”

  A part of me cannot fathom that my dragon’s spirit has more patience than I do.

  I clench my jaw as the Dane tilts his head at Broggen. What is he thinking?

  Tension grows with every silent second.

  We’re all waiting for him to act. The tick of some ancient clock pierces the stone from somewhere beyond the walls, haunting us.

  Even outnumbered and without the full might of the Sept, even if we all rushed him together, this Dane would win. I can feel the power of those around me now, and his is leagues ahead.

  He pauses on Renesta two people over. His eyes glow for an instant before moving on, landing next on a younger-looking man with a terrible attitude—chin up, eyebrow cocked.

  “Instruction from a master is not something to be taken lightly, Horo Linbatch.” The Dane snaps his fingers, flipping the axe artfully back into Blaken’s holster, earning a row of gasps.

  Horo is unimpressed, however, and just shrugs. Another one from House Rhylock. I’m noticing a trend here. Hovnami, Tristian, they’re all flashy and a bit narcissistic.

  The Dane snaps his fingers again, making my breath catch in my throat. His winds whip out a dagger from the back of Horo’s breaches. A concealed weapon, I realize when I see the mace protruding out his back. He took two against the Danes’ instruction. The fool.

  “Testing the waters when deaf, dumb, and blind, Horo,” the godly voice rings through me like a gong. “After receiving clear instruction… it is something Miria cannot suffer.”

  Fsst!

  With a twist of the Dane’s wrist, visible wind swings the dagger into a blur that cuts Horo’s ration sack down to the floor, where he then waves a hand to create a sphere of fire, incinerating the sack in an instant.

  “Hey!” Horo goes to protest.

  Fsst!

  The dagger slides into Horo’s side near the ribs, making him yelp with wide eyes.

  My whole body tenses, as do the others beside me. Don’t defy your master—received loud and clear. He purposely missed any critical organs—the sketch of our bodies alive in my brain telling me so. What’s more, I can’t help but think how the Dane just commanded another element. I figured each of the Sept high council had their own specialty in high magic, but so far the center has displayed wind and fire affinities. Conflicting, according to all mythos on old high magic.

  “Mercy!” a woman shouts from the other end.

  “Mercy?” the Dane repeats. “Do you think that’s what your enemies will show you above your blackened sky?” He magically retracts the blade and whips it into his grasp, letting Horo’s blood drip leisurely over the stone. “I have a mind to tempt another gateway with his insolent blood. Cull this weakness out,” he growls at the begging woman. “Do you have the might to duel to the death once more?”

  Some of the freshly fed brutes pound their fists together with excitement.

  “Hmph. Then I’d have a bunch of mindless spicers ascending these halls.”

  They snarl and spit on the floor when the Dane isn’t looking. Equal offender, over here.

  Horo falls to his knees, cupping the wound, before two siblings beside him help him up—one using a part of his cloth to patch the wound.

  “Answer me, Yessi Dae. Do you think your enemies merciful?”

  “I don’t know, Master Dane,” Yessi’s voice quivers.

  “Precisely my point.” He turns back to Horo. “Now, as a lesson of this pity you so desire, in the trials that come, you will be at the mercy of your brothers and sisters beside you. It will humble you, if you survive.”

  The ceiling rumbles overhead, causing dusty debris to fall over us. One look up shows the stone twisting like a giant cog, then retracting into two grooves, leaving a jagged slit of light revealing open air far, far above us.

  We’re trapped at the bottom of a well. Wait… is this what we’re supposed to be climbing? Impossible. There’re no grooves.

  The Dane lifts his arms, causing some of those beside me to cower. It feels like we’ve been trapped with a god—a punishing, angry god. I’m anticipating another show of dominance, but instead, he lifts his single-jeweled diadem off of his head and pulls back his hood.

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  I hold my breath, fearing a wolf head, or a featureless face. Something nonhuman.

  I’m wrong.

  A pale man with a long jaw, smooth skin, and gray eyes reveals himself. His flowing white hair shimmers all the way to the ends of his shoulders, and as he opens his cloak slightly, I notice bandages wrapped around his chest.

  He’s wounded, and hardened. His expression tells of suffering. But against all of our impressions, he smirks at me.

  “Tonight is a powerful omen,” his voice is no longer magically charged. “We of the Sept have waited years for a sign, wondering if ever we would be blessed again.”

  I don’t know what to do as he talks at me. Yes, master. Sure, master. I have no idea what you’re talking about, master.

  Anger courses through my veins as we lock eyes. He forced dozens to their deaths tonight for this blessing. And call it fate or luck, but I was on a sure path to being one of them if neither of those factors hadn’t intervened. I’ll never trust this man, no matter what awaits.

  “The silhouette of the Torn Wing graced us in our chambers, and now lives within you. Even said to have been afflicted with Arkitus. Hmm. You are the same as he. Perhaps he takes pity on you.”

  I’m taken aback. He could tell from a shadow?

  Boeru squirms with unease within me. “How does he—”

  “The Sept has a deep well of knowledge regarding all legendary spirits of old. The Storm Lance among them.” The Dane turns to Broggen. “If you survive the journey to your second house, I will be keeping a close eye on your progress. The fate of Miria will one day depend on it.”

  “Master, what awaits us?” one of the brutes dares ask, causing the Dane to turn sharply.

  “Prosperity, if the gods are good. Behold.” He clenches his fist, spawning a sphere of violent winds that circles his hand. “Your ignorance ends here. I am Relias Drowcastle, fourth commandant of the Rift Legion of Mages, conjurer of wind and fire, bested by the enemy, High Magus Lyburn of Lacor Kingdomonia. Cursed with poison-fire beneath these bandages, and cursed again by having to judge the vermin of these chambers.”

  Prick, I fight not to grimace. Every cell in my body tells me to run up and punch this guy in the throat.

  “Before this room, your lives weren’t worth the space in the Sept’s parchment. The dead burn unnamed, never to be remembered or honored, except by the parents who sacrificed them. You are not among those ashes.”

  We all side-eye one another in disbelief. Why dishonor the fallen? It makes me think we’re on the wrong side of all this.

  I can’t stay silent. “House Mother respected the dead, and wept for those who were marched off to the Sept.”

  Relias smiles at me, eyes flashing white. “I am no house mother.”

  As he judges me, I notice a flash of pain in his expression. Something so brief, it might not have even existed. It triggers a thought, one that contradicts the harshness of his words—he remembers our names. Even better than I do. Given and sur.

  He’s goading us again. Why?

  The sphere of wind grows larger, engulfing Relias’ entire arm. “Farmed and fed lies no longer. House Kavoh and Valor win this night. Twenty years of tempering your blood will rip the first tier out of its rut, and ignite a flame that extends all the way to our hailed ranks.”

  It’s like he’s speaking to an army before battle. One that surely isn’t surrounding him right now. The wind kicks up as his sphere grows, engulfing Relias entirely, then begins to extend closer to the lot of us lined around the circular wall.

  The pressure is immense. Relias appears a crazed alchemist who just figured out the formula to destroy the world. Teeth bared, eyes blindingly bright, green gaseous slivers seeping from his bandages.

  “We of the Sept acknowledge the altercation in tempered blood since the last awakening,” Relias shouts. “House Sivus—tempered blood of divine balance—has fallen out of favor.”

  “What the hell is he shouting about, Boeru?” I hold onto the stone walls, flattened against the bricks, watching a ball of white wind inch closer to swallow us all. The oxygen is being sucked away from my nose, making it hard to breathe.

  “House Rhylock—tempered blood of showmanship—has fallen out of favor.” Relias clenches his fist harder. “House Valor—blood of extreme acts—has gained. House Kavoh—blood of punishment—remains!”

  Punishment?

  The reel of my memories flashes through my mind. The whips against my friends, against me. The endless stable beatings. The dark room where we’d be jailed for a week if we misbehaved. It’s not… commonplace among the houses?

  “You’re wrong, master!” I yell. “It was an act of kindness that evoked the Torn Wing!”

  “Do not be a fool.” Relias presses the edges of his wind ball through us, engulfing our bodies. My arms scrunch to my sides, bound like in the chambers as we’re lifted off our feet and into the air. Glyphs etched into the walls light up as we pass the thresholds, keeping the stone well from crumbling despite the intense magic. “The sacred conduit of every bond is unique. Tempered blood, however, is an art in and of itself. We, the Sept, track the trends. You are intentionally blind to them. Soon that will change, Haledyn Winbridge.”

  Air rushes up my nose as we ascend. Looking down is a mistake. The ground zooms away from us, until it’s a black hole of abyss beneath my feet. If Relias wanted to, he could drop us all to a horrifying end. I’m sure some sick-tempered blood gateways would ignite then.

  “These magic wielders tamper with dangerous laws of dimension,” Boeru growls. “We will learn from him, mortal, but we will also watch his movements carefully. A day may come where we will be forced to sever head from shoulders.”

  I hear Boeru, but my anxiety is too intense to respond. My fists clench to the point I’m ripping skin off my palms. The strange whirring sounds of magic make my head feel like it’ll explode.

  The dragon’s right. This man is incredibly dangerous.

  With a grunt, Relias powers the wind sphere faster, knocking bricks to tumble below forever. Are these the two thousand steps we walked, reduced to a minute of travel?

  Woosh!

  We emerge aboveground, in the perpetual twilight of a black sky and minimal light raining down above. I’ve lived in these lands my whole life, and never have I experienced them like this.

  With an easy move of his finger, Relias pushes ten of my brothers and sisters aside, gliding them out of his field of vision as we soar high over black-top trees and endless dead-lands. The weak forests of northern Froe have been thought barren for years. But a question always plagued Kane’s mind whenever we looked beyond them, which in turn tickled mine—who resides in the spires that touch the sky?

  We soar quickly over the forest, making it zigzag as a haze in our vision below us. One look at Layla confirms that I’m not the only one at a loss. Jurso looks excited, against all the odds. Good—at least one of us isn’t afraid of heights.

  I can’t deny that seeing artwork of winged beasts in mythos sprung my imagination into scenarios like these, but being magically transported at high speeds was nothing of what I expected. It is exhilarating.

  Once the prospect of death fades, excitement brims. It’s an odd sensation knowing danger is imminent, yet the moments that pass act as a sense of history to prove the next will promise survival. For minutes we soar onward, my jaw threatening to hang open, but I keep it closed for fear of being drowned by violent air. Not sure if I’m just lightheaded from difficult breathing, or if this spire is actually real.

  I’ve never seen such a construction in person. At the base is greenery that has no business being so bushy. I’ve read that golden sun is needed for such health. As the tower ascends, amber marble walls as smooth as silk reflect the faint light of the manifested sky. Cerulean glows peek from windows, telling me that the warring dark is active inside. My head cranes up and up, and up, until the cloudy darkness hides the rest. I wonder if it’s Elden magic that can manifest such momentous power. Maps show four equivalent spires at the far ends of the land. Do they work in tandem to keep the manifestation active? Now knowing our houses aren’t limited to those shacks we lived in… are these spires tethered to the same allegiance?

  Kavoh… the house of punishment. Relias said we remain in favor. Does that mean?

  It hits me like a ton of bricks as we soar through the sky. Kane may have been awakened.