Tweyn Silverbeard rarely ventured down to the ground anymore. The last time he had visited the surface was three years ago, and it was to personally deal with an unruly sect. That had been unpleasant, but expected.

  The city had gotten so much worse since he’d last been on the ground. If only we’d Harvested the world properly, he thought. This would be a clean, barren land. Another dead world among thousands, floating through the vast void, empty of all life.

  But even the King wasn’t strong enough to Harvest an entire world without an enormous talisman array—the same array responsible for the isolation zone around the world as its populations matured.

  When the talismans failed, prone to accident as they were, it also ruined the Harvesting array. To set up another one now risked revealing the secret of the Jarls to the rest of the galaxy. The Cohongs might use it as an excuse to invade, citing violations of the natural rights of citizens. The Path Paladins would certainly have to do something. Or look like they were doing something.

  (It wasn’t as if the Path Paladins didn’t already know—at least, the strongest of them. But their charge was keeping the peace, and at the moment, that meant letting the Nords Harvest billions of souls for the faint mana they granted.)

  Well, now, out of sheer luck, this world survived. Merged with five others, sure. But it survived. And what a mess it was.

  Grumbling to himself, Tweyn pulled up his hood and navigated through the shoddy, weed-infested streets of Centertown. In the distance, metal clanged and men shouted. Yet another sect dispute. The Jofmir Axemen were doing a shoddy job of keeping control down here.

  But really, did it matter anymore? With each day, they were drawing closer and closer to the endgame. The Fallen One only needed a few more years.

  Let them suffer, he thought. These savages killed my son. Let them suffer the lawlessness that follows. I may not be permitted to take my revenge, but I’ll enjoy letting them suffer the consequences of their own actions.

  When he reached an alleyway halfway between two abandoned administrative longhouses, he stopped and turned. “Lady Windblade.”

  At first, there was only silence.

  He crossed his arms. Had she refused an invitation from the Steerman? After everything he had arranged for her? He had given her his son, and a proposal to save her late husband’s sect. All she had to do in return was give up her useless Blended daughter.

  And this was how Lady Windblade repaid him?

  Just as he was about to leave, her voice slithered out from the alley. “Steerman. You requested a meeting.”

  Tweyn stopped mid-step and turned back to the alley. A mortal man wouldn’t have seen anything, but his eyes picked out a woman from the darkness. She looked in her early forties, but was closer to a hundred years old. A widow’s enamel-white veil covered her eyes, and she wore a plain white dress. Her hair was silver-gray, which it always had been since birth.

  Most mana-cultivators gave themselves away with their glowing turquoise eyes, but Lady Windblade suppressed her strength enough to hide her spiritual presence, which also dimmed her eyes.

  “When I call, respond immediately,” Tweyn snapped.

  “Yes, Honoured Lord.”

  “I have another job for you. I require your expertise as an assassin.”

  “I left that life many years ago.”

  “Yet you remembered enough to train your daughter in some of your techniques. You clearly remembered enough to track her over these past few days, whatever you planned to do to her. This isn’t a negotiation.”

  She scowled. “Who is the target?”

  “Kill the fiend-Blend who killed my son.”

  “I will begin making the preparations.”

  “You have two weeks.” Tweyn crossed his arms. “Otherwise, I will consider it a failure. If you succeed, I will deliver you one hundred pounds of hackgold. Well above your old prices.” He had no illusions he’d ever need to actually pay her.

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  “Yes, Honoured Lord.”

  “That’s all.” Tweyn was hoping to be the one to make a dramatic exit, leaping to the rooftops before racing back to his longboat, but Lady Windblade beat him to it. She disappeared in a gust of wind, leaving only a faint flare of mana in his spiritual perception.

  He nearly muttered ‘Fool’ aloud, but he had no idea how far she’d gone, and he didn’t need to give up the game just yet.

  He waited until he returned to his longboat, then continued waiting until his longboat had returned to Iron Hide Central.

  “To your estate?” his driver asked. Technically, the driver was a steerman, but such lowly longboat captains put a smear on the role. It wasn’t a noble rank, not like a manaship’s Steerman.

  A manaship’s Steerman was one of the highest jarls, second only to planetary governors. In turn, planetary governors were only beneath princes.

  Tweyn wasn’t horribly concerned about planetary governors. Princes were a slight concern. But the Fallen One was of greatest importance and deserving of the highest reverence.

  He shook his head and turned to the driver. “To the command bridge.”

  “Yes, Honoured Lord.”

  The Iron Hide’s bridge was embedded in the outer wall of Iron Hide central. It was a perfect building, flush with the outer wall, only identifiable by a few strips of glowing windows overlooking the manaship’s interior buildings on the inside.

  The longboat landed in a hangar, and Tweyn leapt off. He took a hallway and navigated upstairs until he reached the main command bridge and his adjacent office. A few Scaleslinger guards patrolled the bridge, and workers from the sect in their gray gambesons and purple sashes scurried about.

  There wasn’t much to do when the manaship wasn’t in motion. Some of these boys hadn’t even seen the ship fly once in their life—they’d been recruited after the Iron Hide had arrived on Shell. But they kept the hallways clean and they ferried messages. They controlled the aura levels and ensured the ship stayed level.

  The main command bridge, which boasted a view of the outside world through its outward-facing viewport on the other side of the wall, was almost deserted. There was only enough crew to handle the ship in case of an emergency.

  Tweyn ignored them and proceeded to his office, then slammed the door shut. It made a perfectly tight seal, hiding his voice, and there were no windows between his office and the main bridge.

  He activated his Way-transmitter, the dish of gray stone at the center of his office, with a pulse of mana. Runes lit up around its edge, and a life-size statue of Shaped mana projected up above the dish. A man in simple robes, face hidden by his cowl. The Fallen One.

  “Good evening, master,” Tweyn said.

  “Report.” The statue didn’t even turn to face him, but it flickered, and bars of interference streaked through its transparent form.

  “I have enlisted the services of Lady Windblade. She is Core Formation two.”

  “The same as your son. What sort of test is this?”

  “Honoured master, with utmost respect….you instructed me to learn how quickly he is growing. We shall observe how quickly he defeats her compared to my son. Core Formation two will make an excellent baseline.”

  He hated speaking about Heron like he was only part of a test. Heron, poor boy, hadn’t been an experiment. Back then, Tweyn and the Fallen One had no idea that this fiend-blend even existed. Heron had just gotten himself wrapped up with the wrong people, made a few too many enemies.

  But the thing that had killed him was strong enough to attract the attention of the Fallen One.

  “Very well,” said the Fallen One. “Report when you know the outcome. Be sure to tell me what you sense about his mana—if anything. Do you understand?”

  “I understand, Honoured Lord.”

  “You are dismissed.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The next morning, Blake awoke well before his alarm chimed. Something was different. He pushed his attention inward, assessing his mana channels.

  They seemed slightly thicker. It was like the difference in how he felt after a day of sitting around and doing nothing versus the feeling of returning to the sect after a long day of hunting and working to strengthen himself. It was like his channels had been under the influence of a very minor head cold, and suddenly they were fixed.

  Don’t get too cocky, Ethbin warned. At the moment, your meridians are repairing themselves. Yes, the meridians clogged after years of misuse, the blockages becoming worse and worse, but they also degraded. There were hairline fractures, sections where the channels were much too thin, and some outright cracks. Your body will spend as much of the Soul Matter as it can repairing that damage before your channels become more robust.

  Blake nodded. “I won’t push myself too hard today. But…will I notice a difference?”

  Not immediately. You’re setting a foundation for future techniques. Remember, more powerful techniques will cost more Honour. You’ll need stronger meridians to handle the pressure and speed that you’ll have to pump your Honour.

  Blake nodded. “I see.”

  Let them rest for a day, as much as you can. After a few days of enhancement, then we can start experimenting.

  Until then, Blake had other jobs. He had to start recruiting some people to serve under him. Sure, he had to serve Stone Moon’s goals, but he was also going to be a mentor to them. He needed to pick helpers who were strong fighters and malleable to his own goals. They’d be the easiest to influence—and to get on his side.

  They’d make it much, much easier to begin growing his Secret Society.