The front of the mage guild looked like it wanted to tumble into the pitching sea and Killian considered joining it.

Killian hesitated. He pressed his damp palms against the marble and gritted his teeth.

Crashing waves, sharp rocks, and deadly undercurrents?

Pffft, piece of cake compared to what was coming.

Killian was flat on his back on the stretch of hard marble before the mage guild entrance, inches from the sheer drop of the cliff. Surrounded by a semi-circle of destroyed undead and more. His uniform ruined. Out of options. And trying not to breathe too loud.

The Dark Sorcerer never left a target alive. The man was more a gleeful cat playing with his food than an efficient killer. His footsteps were picking their way closer. He was the last one standing amongst the carnage of the guild.

Silence fell.

And broke, as Killian drew in a ribboned breath.

He cut off the breath as soon as he could.

Silence fell again.

Killian had lead the battle that had killed the Dark Sorcerer's most infamous follower, D'Oncray, a month ago. Killian, in the past, had followed every order to wipe out sorcerer bloodlines.

If the Dark Sorcerer had a list, Killian would definitely be on it.

Killian's wolf fur collar on his uniform was soaked through with melted sleet and sweat and worse.

Guards, soldiers, and all the mages who hadn't fled, lay lifeless and messy on the marble entrance of the guild.

Killian's heart thudded.

He'd never been more completely screwed. He wasn't ready for the dark abyss. There was no rebirth for him. Not one that anyone knew of, anyway. There were so many things he hadn't made right yet.

Today would not be the day to die. He'd not die after fighting with his brother last night, not after someone had vandalised his wife and sons' graves, and after he'd lost the Sacred Sword of Clochaint right out of his hand.

The battle with the Dark Sorcerer had raged fast and furious, from the mage guild catacombs, through the mage guild halls, and out onto the marble grand entrance.

There had been twelve of Lismere's treasure leagues nearby when they got an alert to the threat to the burial treasures in the catacombs.

Now, twelve of the treasure leagues were demolished.

At some point Killian had fallen and didn't have the strength to get back up. Next to the cliff. Close to the impossibly sky-high doors of the guild. The guild loomed over him, bigger and older than the palace – an intimidation tactic facing the kingdom's most vulnerable border.

A mage soldier lay sprawled beside him, her fingers inches from Killian's elbow. Her dark hair was matted, the careful braids gone.

If Killian wanted, he could've reached out and brushed her hair back.

He'd recruited her. Begged for her to be on his team.

Trained her.

Most mages were as gentle and placid as new pups. Peace-loving hippies. Usually, they were a headache to train for warfare. She'd been one of the few who hadn't made him want to stab himself.

A sorcerer versus a mage was like a wolf versus a dog. A different creature entirely, and wholly dangerous.

You could tell a sorcerer apart from a mage by their hair (too many crowns), and their teeth (too many molars), and their nails (too thick).

Oh - and by the fact sorcerers were violent psychopaths.

Killian drew in another breath. He had to.

And Death hung over Killian, scythe ready to drop.

No – wait – not Death. It was a real person.

Vampire-pale and pissed.

Icy wind rushed off the sea, and then stopped. It made the Dark Sorcerer's coat billow.

He rested his boot on Killian's shoulder and crouched.

'Found you.' He pressed the tip of his wand against the thrumming pulse in Killian's neck.

The Dark Sorcerer's hand was steady, despite the slump of his shoulders and the pallor of his face. He was apparently unaware of the freezing sleet and ash, which drifted onto his back and into Killian's eyes.

It covered his boots and pooled in the hollows above his collarbones.

Wilde, Killian wanted to say. He couldn't remember the Dark Sorcerer Wilde's first name. He could barely remember his own right now.

Wilde's eyes burned too bright. They lanced through Killian.

All Killian had left was the cheap dagger sheathed in his boot.

Not much to fight with, especially considering the dagger wasn't even enchanted, and it was useless at stopping a Krupin follower from being reborn. Which was exactly what Wilde was. The indignity of not even being killed by the big boss Krupin, but Krupin's little protege-turned-freelance-menace Wilde, was unbearable.

But, the cheap dagger was what Killian had.

That, and his mouth.

Make him slip up. Make him lose control before he regains more of his strength.

Killian swallowed. Forced himself to speak.

'Problem?' Killian said, his voice was hoarse. He'd torn his throat earlier, shouting orders at his men.

Wilde dug his wand into Killian's skin.

Killian waited, glaring up into the eyes of the dark sorcerer. No, necromancer, that was what Wilde was now, and those re-animated corpses from the catacombs had been a bitch to take down, and they'd re-animate again if they didn't stab the right enchanted steel into them.

'Look,' Killian said, starting to hit his stride, 'if you're having problems performing, there's really no shame-'

'The real shame here,' said Wilde, 'is it obviously bothers you to transform. How dull. I was hoping for a show.'

Wilde's gaze shifted the smallest fraction. Maybe he'd heard a sound, or seen something move off to the right. Maybe he was as exhausted as Killian and getting sloppy.

It was the opening Killian needed.

He moved fast.

So fast Wilde couldn't utter a spell.

He smashed Wilde's nose hard, and something – his fist or Wilde's cartilage – snapped.

Wilde reeled. He dripped blood onto the marble.

Killian snatched Wilde's wand from his grasp and threw it. It clattered. Rolled over the edge of the cliff.

Killian slammed his fist into Wilde's jaw.

Wilde stumbled back, spitting teeth and blood.

Killian grabbed Wilde's throat.

Squeezed.

Wilde gasped. His eyes widened in the first hint of genuine pain that Killian had seen on the man.

Killian trembled. Forget the crappy dagger in his boot. He'd tear this man apart with his bare teeth - this man who'd just massacred thousands to get a damn ancient sword. Killian gathered his energy, called on the most primal part of himself. Prepared for the bone-deep ache of shifting into wolf form - prepared for claws, fangs, the rush of wildness. He was exhausted enough that the risk of losing himself to the wolf entirely was very real right now-

Pop.

Wilde vanished. On the spot. Out of Killian's hand.

Wilde was gone.

Killian grabbed at shimmering air. But he was too late. Wilde was far beyond his reach.

'Gods.'

Killian sank to his knees, clutching his hand to his chest. The marble ground was a slippery mess of sleet and gore and crumbled debris from the towering mage guild. He paid this no heed.

Wilde had gone.

And Wilde had left him alive.

Big mistake.

—

Killian crumpled up the General's letter and shoved it deep into his pocket.

Real deep.

He would've shoved that thing into the world's core if he could. But, it didn't stop the words echoing in his mind.

Dear Killian Slate,

You are requested and required to conduct novice training twice a week at the Dierne barracks. You are requested and required to attend guard duty for the Griffin mage family at their residence in Hobbtown, starting immediately …

Killian shook his head, forcing his mind to focus on what was important. Ale was important. He squinted at the barkeep's name. Alice? Alexe? Things were getting a little hazy.

'Another,' Killian said.

His stained elbows were soaked through with ale from leaning on the chipped bar top. Normally, that would annoy Killian. He broke out into a smile. But maybe that was because Alice-or-Alexe had handed him another drink. Killian wrapped his hands around it. Warmth soaked into his palms.

'Thank you.'

'That's your eighth one,' Alice-or-Alexe said.

'Is it? Feels like only three.'

She wiped down the puddled bar top. 'You hold your booze well.'

'I speak very clearly when drunk,' Killian said. 'It's my one skill in life.'

'Great.' She paused. 'Wait, what?'

'It's true,' Killian said. 'Try me. Ask me to pronounce anything.'

She peered at Killian more closely than she'd done all night. Dark hair tumbled over her shoulders. She was all lips and lashes and perfume and hips. She was close enough for Killian to smell, to lean forward and kiss.

Killian felt the first flutter in his chest. He ignored it.

'Don't look at me like that,' she said.

'I'm not –'

'We've got a housegirl if you want to flirt. Reasonable rates.'

'No-'

'Houseboy, then?'

'I don't –'

'Ryder! Customer.'

'No – gods –'

A guy in a worn leather jacket stalked out from a shadowy booth. He offered Killian a crooked smile, rolling his sleeves up over his toned forearms. His blond hair was just long enough to pull back into a ponytail.

'Thank you,' Killian said. 'No. I just want to get drunk enough to forget my own name.'

'I can make you forget your own name,' said Ryder.

'I – really?' Killian peered at him. Ryder winked. 'No – no thank you. If you could just give me the bottle, I'd be very grateful-'

'Are you even of age?' Alice-or-Alexe said, frowning and peering even more closely at Killian. She waved Ryder away with a sharp gesture. 'Where's your stat papers?'

'I'm twenty-six,' said Killian, insulted.

Because, really, he hadn't been asked for his stat papers at a bar for years, now. Which was a good thing, because every citizen's enchanted stat papers laid out everything.

Everything.

Name and date of birth? Yep. Parents' details? Oh, yeah.

Job and pay? It was on there.

And the individual score against the eight different skills most prized by the Augustes? Of course.

Strength.

Dexterity.

Constitution.

Intelligence.

Wisdom.

Charisma.

Luck.

And, the most valued -

Magic.

Not only did Killian's name - lately - get landed with terms like, failure and holy Clochaint, his strength and constitution numbers scared the hooey out of people.

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

And his magic stats were a little whacked out from the infection of the wolf bite from when he was sixteen. Not that the magic was of any use to Killian. Not like it was to a mage or a sorcerer. All it meant was he had to keep tight control of himself, else he'd transform into an apex predator, which, despite how it sounded, was not fun, and could lead to some very unpleasant paperwork, angry letters, and silver weapons.

Those burned like a sonovabitch.

Killian sometimes wondered if the mage who'd scribed his papers, many years ago, had messed up the enchantment. It didn't matter how much he screwed up in the fights against the sorcerers. His numbers kept climbing.

Which shot a ripple of fear through him. Because it meant the sorcerers' stats were off the charts to be beating him.

Not that they knew the sorcerers' numbers.

Which was a real problem. The army was flying blind in training up their mages' stats to meet them.

That, and the huge debt to the crown stamped across the bottom of Killian's papers, from when he was sixteen, freshly bitten, and frenzied for help and had made a deal with the king, was more than a little humiliating. He'd be paying that off for years. Decades, if he kept losing all the decent soldiers from his team.

'Stat papers,' Alice-or-Alexe said. 'Or you can leave my pub.'

Reluctantly, Killian extracted his papers from his pocket and slid them across the counter, clumsily using his fingers to obscure his name at the top.

Even drunk as he was, Killian could see the colour drain from her face as she took in the numbers.

'Right,' she said. She repeated this once, twice, as though stunned. Right. Right.

Discretely, he slid his stat papers back and stashed them away before anyone else could see.

'I couldn't tell under all the …' Alice-or-Alexe pointed at every part of Killian's face.

'Charm?' Killian said, helpfully. 'Good looks?'

'Mess,' she said. Her voice had grown thin. 'Who beat you up?'

Numbness crept through Killian. He sipped his drink. He could feel the scrunched-up and ignored orders in his pocket. They'd been signed by the General. But he knew who was really behind it, who the General really answered to - who they all answered to - Baldwin Auguste.

A king so ruthless, his name was whispered in fear.

Killian was really playing with fire, here.

Baldwin was going to be furious. It was the first order Killian had disobeyed.

But, he didn't care. He didn't care if Baldwin tracked him down himself and slit Killian's throat. Killian would not be relegated to training and guard duty, not with numbers like his, and not after being unwaveringly loyal for so long.

Baldwin could find someone else to order around.

'Bunch of dead guys,' Killian said. 'Then a sorcerer.'

Her expression shifted and she exchanged a glance with Ryder, but it was too blurred for Killian to understand.

'That's your last one,' she said. 'I'm cutting you off.'

Killian took his drink and found a dark booth at the back, away from their judgement. He wasn't ready for the silence of his home. He'd never be ready to sleep. The flashes from the battle were bad enough while awake. He could still feel the skin of the undead underneath his hands.

Guilt burned.

It was so late there were only two other patrons in the bar. The street outside, covered in greyish snow and lamp lit, was deserted.

The bar - The Golden Stag Pub - was tiny, with a crooked ceiling and a dirt-packed floor. But it served the best ale in Dierne city.

Sweet and smooth.

Killian rubbed his thumb along the rim of the glass, ignoring the throb in his sore hand and sore everything.

Ryder slipped into Killian's booth, blond hair falling out of his ponytail, and pulled a tiny flask out of his leather jacket. He passed it to Killian.

For some reason, this made Killian's eyes sting.

'Are you crying?' said Ryder.

'Definitely not.'

'Bad day for us all, huh?' Ryder rested his chin in his palm. His tone was edged with the kind of curiosity bred from too much boredom on a long shift. 'You know anyone who was at the guild?'

Killian stared down at his hands. The whole kingdom knew about Wilde's massacre at the mage guild, knew before the massacre had even finished. They knew Killian Slate had been the one there, the one supposed to stop Wilde from getting the Sacred Sword of Clochaint, and stop him from killing every damn mage in sight.

Everyone knew Killian Slate, the Augustes' former favourite, the most fearsome wolf shifter in the kingdom, had failed. Again.

Thousands of mages dead. Hundreds of soldiers. They were still counting the bodies for the final tally. And the Sacred Sword of Clochaint held enchantments so ancient and strong that modern mages couldn't wield it.

A sorcerer like Wilde or Krupin, though?

Maybe.

The stories were that Clochaint's sword could command armies.

Killian really hoped this was just a myth.

Killian slid down in the booth. 'How much do you make a night?'

Ryder leant back, his expression quickly shuttering. He watched Killian, his eyes half-lidded. 'How much do you think I'm worth?'

'I,' Killian said. 'I'm asking because I need to change professions. How much do you earn a night? Do you get to live here, or –'

Ryder pressed his lips together. He made a strangled sound like he was holding back laughter.

Killian shoved his hand into his pocket, feeling the scrunched-up orders. 'I'm being serious.'

Ryder took his flask off Killian, his face lit up by his crooked grin. 'How drunk are you?'

Rock-bottom drunk, Killian realised. 'Very. Still, I …'

Ryder tucked the flask into his jacket. 'You're too drunk for this conversation. I promise you, in the morning, things won't seem so bad.'

He stalked off, disappearing through a door behind the bar.

Killian slumped onto the table, burying his face in his arms.

And, raised it again.

The two other patrons were talking, close together. A balding man, the lamplight reflecting off his head, and a hunched woman who kept nudging him with her elbow.

Their voices pulsed over Killian.

Hushed and urgent. And filling the whole damn bar.

' … it'll take a sorcerer to beat a sorcerer, mark my words. The kingdom needs a sorcerer – the Griffin lad, he's half sorcerer – if there is such a thing. One of the few left after the purge …'

They both made a sign to ward off the dark arts.

Killian let out an involuntary snort, and then clapped a hand over his mouth.

Too late. They heard and both looked over.

'Sorry,' Killian said.

Lismere wasn't going to be saved by a psychopathic sorcerer, especially one from the D'Oncray bloodline. Sorcerers were the problem.

The Griffin lad - Conor Griffin.

The seven-year-old son of sorcerer Faye D'Oncray and mage Ryan Griffin.

This wasn't the first time Killian had heard civilians talking about the Griffin lad as though he'd be the answer to all their troubles. They had no idea of the realities of the situation. The Griffin lad was going to be a big problem real soon.

The Griffin lad was already showing himself to be a problem. He had an unprecedented control over his magic for his age, and had already taken out one of Krupin's lackeys with a wave of his hand.

Accidentally, as it had turned out, but nonetheless, the story had spread like a very contagious flu through the civilians of Lismere.

Killian tried hard not to roll his eyes.

The couple continued to stare.

Killian slouched down in the booth, letting his hair hang over his face.

'You,' said the man. 'You have a look about you.'

Killian blinked and weighed his options. Some people could see it – the wolf. Ignoring them might make it worse. Killian braced himself for a barrage of silver amulets. 'Pardon?'

'You were at the guild battle, yeah?' said the man.

There were more than one hundred guilds in Lismere. The physician's guild, the bard's guild, assassin's … there was only one guild you could refer to as simply the guild, and everyone would know which one you were talking about.

The woman nudged the man with her elbow.

The man batted her hand away. 'That's a soldier's uniform, yeah?'

Killian glanced down. He's stripped off his jacket with the wolf fur collar, with his stars and awards, and the worst of the mess from the fight.

But he was still dressed in the discrete remains of his grey Lismere army uniform.

'Yeah,' said Killian.

The woman nudged him harder. 'He doesn't want to talk about that, Gerald.'

'I,' Gerald said, raising his finger lazily, and ignoring her, 'thought there were almost no survivors. Did you see Wilde? Did you see any of the Augustes?'

Killian skulled his drink and slowly stood. He was drunk enough to stumble over and invite himself to sit at their booth. The leather seat squeaked against his pants. This close Killian could see the mole on the man's upper lip, and the fraying lace of the woman's shirt.

'He doesn't want to talk about the battle, Gerald,' the woman muttered. 'Let's go.'

Gerald leaned back. 'Rumour is the king was in his office fucking a consort while the guild was attacked. That true?'

Words swirled around inside Killian, but none of them made it to his tongue. Baldwin wasn't the one who'd messed up.

The woman whispered in Gerald's ear, frantic and low. Whatever she said, it made Gerald run his gaze over Killian, his lips parted.

'Is what they say about the Augustes true?' Gerald said.

'Probably,' Killian said. 'What do they say?'

Killian's confused silence was only broken by the little bell on the front door dinging, as some other poor soul came in to drown their misery.

'I'm nine drinks deep,' Killian said, trying to prod the couple into speaking plainly.

The couple stared. Their mouths gaped open. Horror etched onto every line on their faces.

It was some time before Killian realised they weren't staring at him, but at someone behind him.

Slowly, Killian turned.

The man behind Killian had silvery hair braided away from his sharp face. He had a huge sword strapped to his back, a stifled air of panic about him, and he carried a sleeping kid in his arms.

It took Killian too long to put together that this man was Baldwin Auguste, because the sight of him in this dingy pub was so out of place.

He was carrying his little daughter, Sorena.

'Hello, sire,' Killian said.

The couple Killian had been talking to muttered something and slithered away.

Baldwin Auguste had that effect on people.

'I've been looking for you everywhere,' Baldwin said. 'Gruger turned up on my doorstep asking for you. Didn't you get the orders?'

Doorstep rippled through Killian. The image of head assassin, Gruger, on the front steps of the palace and politely knocking on the door flashed through his mind.

Killian wasn't in Gruger's division. Killian wasn't an assassin. The two of them barely had anything to do with each other, except for in emergencies.

Killian wasn't a Major anymore, even though he'd been the youngest ever bestowed with that rank by the Augustes. He wasn't the Major of the best field team Lismere had ever seen any more, or even a Major of one of Lismere's twelve treasure leagues any more.

'I thought it was a mistake,' Killian said. 'You demoted me, remember? It happened …' he counted on his fingers, 'seven hours ago. Trainers don't guard or do surveillance work. Especially not for the precious Griffins.'

Training and guard duty.

Killian wanted to puke.

Baldwin surveyed Killian. He barely contained his power and fury. It was like sitting next to lightning in a jar. 'This isn't a punishment.'

'I want to announce my resignation,' Killian said.

'Don't be childish. You can't resign. I assigned you guarding and training because I need you there.'

'I'll still pay my debt to you,' said Killian. 'Don't worry.'

'I don't care about the debt right now, Killian.'

'I care about the debt.' Oh, gods, Killian was getting emotional. In front of Baldwin. This was not happening.

Baldwin watched him, leaning back slightly as though Killian's feelings were catching. 'Are you drunk?'

'Quite a bit, actually.'

'Bloody Clochaint, Killian. What is wrong with you.'

Heat flooded Killian's cheeks. 'The list is long.'

Something huge, something horrible, tried to claw its way out of Killian's throat. He pushed it down.

Killian stared down at his scabbed fists. 'Sorry.'

'Pull it together.'

'You need me to watch Sorena?' Killian said. 'Why've you got her? Where's her guard?'

Baldwin had been paranoid about Sorena's safety since the assassination of her brother. The Augustes had enemies coming out their ears, from sorcerers to northern rebels. Killian ended up looking after Sorena a lot.

'I need you to come with me,' Baldwin said, his voice barely controlled. 'I need my best trackers, fighters, and assassins. Now. We'll fahren.'

That stunt Wilde had pulled off – fahrening without chalk, without enchantments, just pop, disappearing on the spot and moving through space to land somewhere else – was so far beyond what a normal mage could do, he made even Baldwin Auguste look like a dribbling toddler next to him.

The only matches for him were other sorcerers, none of whom were inclined to help Lismere, or stop the mounting death toll.

They fed off it.

'Wait,' Killian said. 'What? What's happened –'

Baldwin turned to Alice-or-Alexe. 'Coffee. Now.'

She froze, dark hair half shielding her face. She'd been wiping down the same spot on the bar, watching them.

She swallowed audibly. 'Uh, sire, we don't have –'

'Get some.'

She rushed out, the bell dinging above the door.

'Wilde's at Hobbtown, right now.' He adjusted Sorena on his hip. 'Duelling the Griffins.'

'What?' Killian said.

'Yes.'

Killian should've been there, at Hobbtown, guarding the Griffins.

Instead, he was here, ignoring orders, nursing a battered ego, elbow-deep in ale, self-pity, and guilt.

'Why've you got Sorena?' Killian said, bewildered. 'Let me take her –'

'I'm not letting her out of my sight. Not right now.'

Killian understood not wanting to let your family out of your sight, he really did, because sorcerers would go after the family of their enemies, and Wilde had been very close to the palace when he attacked the guild.

'But, you're not taking her to a battle,' Killian said, his head beginning to throb. Sorena's lashes fluttered as she stirred.

'It won't be a battle. We're doing this covertly, you understand?'

Killian frowned down at his hands. Baldwin had a habit of double speak and expected Killian to always keep up. His thinking, it was too muddled.

Doing this covertly made no sense.

For Wilde they'd need full forces, special forces. They'd need everyone for even a chance at taking him down. The Griffin brothers were Lismere's best duellists. The Augustes, Lismere, needed the Griffins to live. And onside.

They needed the Griffins onside so badly Baldwin Auguste had bent his one unbreakable policy regarding the execution of sorcery lines, for them.

For Conor Griffin.

The rest of the D'Oncray line had gone in the purge.

But, D'Oncray's son remained.

The mage Ryan Griffin - all his brothers, all his family - kept a tighter hold of Conor than Baldwin kept on Sorena. Which was saying something. The Augustes allowed the Griffins to keep Conor, they supported the Griffins, and the Griffins kept fighting for Lismere.

But Killian didn't dare ask Baldwin for clarification. Not while he was like this.

Killian lowered his voice. 'Let's take Sorena to mine – it's secure, no one knows about it.'

Baldwin's nostrils flared, the barest hint of tension in his jaw.

'There's no safer place than my house, sire.'

Tense air hung between them, a gas cloud about to be set alight.

'I'll go with you,' Killian said. 'I'll follow every order. But Sorena stays at mine.'

His gaze skimmed over Killian. He stiffly sat down in the booth, setting Sorena down next to him. 'Fine. We'll stop there first.'

Something clinked inside Baldwin's clothes, and he arranged three corked bottles of thick potion on the table.

'Take them,' he said.

Killian recognised two of the potions – for pain and increased stamina, both of which had wolf tears in them, and were definitely illegal – but not the third.

'I don't know how long the Griffins'll be able to last,' Baldwin said. 'Now is our best chance to get him.'

They waited for the barkeep to return. Time pulled, like taffy stretched from gritted teeth.

Baldwin got up and paced, his tension and agitation barely contained. Gruffly, he said, 'You still look terrible.' He got out his wand.

Killian fumbled with his cheap dagger, adjusting it in his boot. 'Let's just go. I'm fine.'

'I need you functional. You're one of the few men I trust. I'd rather you not die -ah.'

The barkeep returned. The coffee she pressed into Killian's hands smelt strong.

Baldwin pushed Sorena's hair off her face.

Killian gulped the scalding coffee and tried to sober up, processing Baldwin's words with a kind of fuzzy surprise.

Baldwin watched. 'Where's it hurt?'

Killian told him.

He pointed his wand at Killian's hand and then his abdomen and face, muttering a staccato of quiet syllables.

Warmth flooded Killian. He stretched his hand. It felt better.

Baldwin motioned for Killian to stand, he drew a circle in the dirt floor around them, and they stood, nose to nose.

Baldwin chanted in an ancient language, then,

CRACK,

They fahrened.

—

CRACK.

They landed inside Killian's place, precisely in Killian's sons' room. Killian could tell by the smell alone.

A month ago, this smell would've brought Killian to his knees.

The room was covered in a thin layer of dust.

Baldwin laid Sorena on top of one of the beds, and then paced and muttered safety enchantments on the room.

Sorena knew Killian's place, but Killian was worried about her being disoriented if she woke.

Killian lit a lamp and started scrawling a note. She knew how to read -

No,' said Baldwin. 'Killian. Let's go.'

CRACK.

—

CRACK.

Killian's feet slammed into the cobbled lane. Cool air brushed his lips.

Hobbtown was instantly recognizable by the architecture alone.

Ancient.

'Gruger should be here,' said Baldwin. He quietly listed off names, ones Killian recognised from the assassins' guild. And ones he didn't, from their overseas ally, Foix.

'Why aren't they here?' said Baldwin.

The lane and side alleys were empty.

But it didn't mean they weren't there, blended into the shadows and pressed against rooftops. Killian hoped they were hiding and waiting for their time to act, and that he and Baldwin hadn't walked into a trap. Or the tail end of a failed mission.

Thunder rumbled, from the duel.

And thunder faded.

Water lapped in the canals.

It was too quiet.

The picturesque lanes, bridges, and winding canals looked an unlikely place for a sorcerer to linger.

Baldwin's arm pressed against Killian's. 'This way.'

They walked briskly, in silence. Past open courtyards, and tethered boats. Past colourful rows of ancient - unlit - homes. Inside one of the dark homes, a curtain twitched. The people of Hobbtown were hiding. Watching.

Baldwin turned, his heels grinding on glass from a series of shattered street lamps.

Killian smelt it before he saw it. The smouldering ruins of the Griffin home.

Baldwin glanced at Killian, and muttered, 'Cautiously, now.'

They rounded a corner.

The Griffin home was … ravaged.

And it was utterly still, aside from thick and curling smoke.

'We're too late,' Baldwin said.

Killian swallowed. Tried to find his voice. He wanted to ask where's Wilde, but all he could do was stare at the shattered people, the five Griffin brothers and their guards. The Griffin elders. Their home. A giant red X marked a crumbling internal wall. Wilde's symbol.

A skeletal hand steadily crushed Killian's lungs. He desperately scanned the wreckage and bodies for survivors.

A burned piece of sheet music fluttered past Killian's ankles.

The Griffins specialised in air magic. Some of them used their wind instruments as part of their power. They might've been practising when Wilde came … and there were sooty paw prints all over. They'd had a dog.

Where was it?

And, footprints.

Everywhere.

Too sloppy to be left by any of Gruger's assassins.

Baldwin moved towards the wreckage. The bodies. 'The two Griffin kids are missing. Where's Conor Griffin?'

A shadow moved, and Killian turned sharply.

And then let out a small breath.

The shadow turned into one of Gruger's assassins, as he moved into the flickering light.

Baldwin and the assassin talked while Killian numbly went through the wreckage.

Seven-year-old Conor Griffin – the precious, chosen-one gem of Lismere, the child prodigy, the top person on their watch list, the last of the D'Oncray bloodline, and the Griffins now, too – was not amongst the fallen.

'Find him.' Baldwin turned to Killian. 'Track Wilde. He'll have the boys. Ensure he won't be a problem.'

Tracking Wilde turned out to be a cakewalk for Killian. Wilde, barely alive after the Griffins, was more crawling toad than powerful sorcerer. Now, he was truly running on empty.

Killian followed Wilde north, north, north. So far north, the kingdom of Lismere got barbaric. They spoke old dialects up there, were superstitious about mages, and were known for producing rebels.

There, Wilde stuck out like a sore thumb. The northerners were huge. They were warrior people. They gave their six-year-olds battle axes and trained them every day in their schools.

Wilde, with his tiny, beat-up ass, was easy to follow.

But, not easy to catch. He moved, always just out of reach. Killian would trail him, glimpse him, approach - cautiously - and get within attacking distance, and then Wilde would fahren.

He was too messed up to fahren far, but it was always far enough to slip Killian's grasp.

Until, Wilde was over the borders of Lismere, and crawling back into Krupin's safehold into the neighbouring land of Othoa, beyond Killian's reach.

Predictable.

But, good for Lismere because at least Wilde was gone, even if he'd taken Conor Griffin with him. They could shore up the wards between Othoa and Lismere, and make sure it was as difficult as possible for Wilde or Krupin to slither back into their kingdom.

Conor Griffin could be Othoa's dilemma now.

And good for Killian.

Killian was reinstated back to his treasure league, and the trouble with sorcerers petered out.

Until nine years later.

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