Watching Gen turn his back on us sends a chill down my spine. He heads toward his section of the spire, marking the end of idling around the nest in the middle of the sky. It’s time. Our endless vertical climb awaits.

  Black chains spewing dark essence hang from the spire heights like a weeping willow, magically lodged into the marble walls. The big question plagues us all—will they hold? If they do, then ours sure enough will sustain Jurso.

  Broggen’s brutes test their grip, preparing without any inklings of fear. They trust in their riderborn. Honestly, I trust in him too. He seems to be far ahead of anyone else in this arena of ignorance.

  A great mind of House Valor.

  “Do not linger, mortal. You have proven trustworthy and noble to your peers. Now… exude strength.”

  Boeru’s right.

  We have to make it. All of us. No more being lied to. There’s truth to be found, and power to be seized. I have a dragon inside me to gain it.

  Once I’m comfortable that the brutes are far enough up to test the chains, I look over my shoulder to my crew. “Okay, formation, as practiced. Jurso.”

  He grabs the magical chain, checking his hands as if there’s gunk on them.

  “How’s the grip?” I ask.

  “Oddly comfortable,” Jurso says.

  “Of course. The weapons are forged by high smiths,” Renesta comments. “Meant to awaken powerful spirits of the Sealed Circle. The warring dark will not fail you.”

  “Of course.” Layla rolls her eyes, getting in rear position beside Rogoshel.

  “Horo, center right. Misty, center. Renesta, center left. Layla, back left. Rogo, back right.” My most trusted are placed under Jurso, because every bone in my body tells me he will falter.

  I’d be the same liability if not for the Torn Wing.

  Surprise me, friend. Please.

  “Everyone, in position. Climb!” I shout, taking confidence that some of the smaller siblings are hours ahead of us. Renesta thinks there’re strength charms or auras above to help bolster us, while my mind goes straight to portals—dark magic or high, I’ll take either. There’s no other explanation, honestly, and nothing’s off the table since Boeru bonded with me.

  Layla’s arms flex solid when she grabs the first groove and pulls herself up, making way for me to take the tail position. It’s not that my new body made me overconfident, it’s that I’m trying to lead these people, like my brother Kane would. I’m emulating him, since I’m dragonborn. No one else gets a second chance at life, so I might as well bear the risk of not having two giants there to break my fall.

  “It is a privilege to experience such a high vantage point in war.” Boeru spreads his shadowy wing at my back. “Do not forget that.”

  “Easy for you to say. You have wings—” I’m cut off by Boeru clearing his massive throat. “Right. Wing. I mean wing.”

  Half an hour passes, and to my surprise, Jurso is making good time. He uses his feet to step up where he can—taking some of the pressure off his thin arms—then rests them in the grooves when he needs to adjust. The comfort of having a rope-like lifeline is doing wonders for him. For the rest of us, the grooves are made of smooth wood overlaid with rubber grip, which has been making the climb reasonable thus far. If the whole thing was marble like the rest of the spire, we’d all slip to our deaths.

  Having the view of Layla’s ass and calves in my face makes me realize what a ridiculous specimen she really is. That giant shield proves to be no burden at all. Probably could go on for days if she had to. Misty, on the other hand… her arms are already quivering one level up.

  “C’mon, runt,” Rogoshel growls at her. “You got more fire than that.”

  “Damn right I do.” She pushes past the pain, refusing to give up.

  “We should all be more like her,” I say in my head.

  “Her fire is strong. Keep her breathing, mortal,” Boeru approves.

  Rest breaks are becoming more frequent as time passes. I made the mistake of looking down a few minutes ago, and it took everything to not freeze in place. Anxious clenching grips my chest so powerfully, a part of me wishes for the eternal blackness of death without having to experience the fall. A cowardly thought, one that’s immediately overrun by the promise of true mythos.

  Thinking of Miria’s history whirls like the dragon in my mind—paintings of banners that hang from high castles all the way to deep moats, displaying the shield-hammer sigil that stood the test of time. I want to see it under a golden sun. Crimson-scaled dragons perched on beast-ledges with their sword riders atop them. I’ve seen all the drawings.

  Mage armies locked arm in arm, sharing high-magic elements to forge the toughest barriers. The diagrams are so detailed—explaining how the convergence of high magic was used to thwart off an entire squadron. Battle of Drok Mist. Subterfuge of Aisle Strimont.

  All that is real. I know it is, now. And when I get to the new world, Kane will be among them.

  “Ack.” Horo panics, causing the rest of us to tense.

  He lets go of one groove to hold his rib. Must be a sharp pain from the Dane’s stab. “Fuck.” He shivers.

  Renesta turns to her right, holding one clawed hand out with white-glowing eyes, readying to lift a shadow if need be.

  “The wound?” I call from below.

  “It reopened.” Horo winces.

  “Hold it together a little longer,” Jurso shouts from above, pointing.

  I crane my head as far back as I can without threatening my orientation. There above, about forty feet away, a large cutout enough to fit a person or two. Maybe more.

  Thank gods.

  The truth is, this new body isn’t only stronger, it has the endurance of a stampede. My arms feel lighter the more adrenaline pumps into them. Legs are bands of useful muscle. And my lungs… they’re as clear as the flatlands. Makes me wonder if Boeru is behind it, lending me strength as I go. It’s the same kind of energy as when I rose from the dead to best Grondus.

  Even with this new physical potential to surpass a brute, Gen and his minions still passed us up a while ago. Haven’t heard their grunting and chain pulling for nearly twenty minutes. It’s the weak links in our ranks. Harboring them slowed us considerably.

  It’s not a race, Hale. Just keep everyone alive.

  “You consider the fragility of your weaker warriors. I sense it in you, mortal.”

  The accusation strains my heart.

  “Get out of my head,” I bark.

  “You accepted my terms in the gateway. We are one. Enough with the nonsense. Now, ruminate on the hard fact that you and I were both the lesser. Me, millennia past. You, merely hours ago.”

  “That’s not lost on me, Boeru,” I seethe, somewhat welcoming the distraction from breathtaking heights.

  “Hmm. Hmm,” the dragon snickers. “Do not let my spirit overwhelm you. Otherwise… how did you put it? You’d be no better than a brute.”

  I want to punch this dragon in his maw right about now. Yet, he’s right. I’m reminded yet again that this isn’t me.

  “In my roost, a generation before me, the smallest male, Jasyor, was buried by the talons of his sisters when he failed to fly. They dumped boulders on his wings, stoned his body to crush his ribs. Do you know what came of him?”

  The wind tickles my neck as I keep rising. Left arm up, left leg. Right hand grasp…

  “His eldest sister came back for him at the end of the reaping to collect his corpse, only to find him upright, battered beyond recognition, yet still holding strong. She took pride in his resilience, which ultimately led him to grow into the right-hand protector of his mother—the queen.”

  The story moves me. I can relate with Jasyor. So can Jurso and Misty, I’m sure.

  “It is the measure of potential that will ultimately carry us in war, if such a prospect can be realized. Your weakest allies may one day be your most powerful.”

  “I’m wondering if the Danes want to see us all fall,” I grunt, pulling myself up a steep curve.

  “The Danes…” Boeru repeats. “Dark as they may be, they understand the same principle. Even though they sacrifice blood for it, they too hope for the power of potential. It is the rule of long victory in age-old war. Learn the lesson, Haledyn. Learn it well. Do not succumb to your newfound strength.”

  “You’re a dragon. I’m harboring your spirit. If I’m feeling a certain way, isn’t it because you are too?”

  “Power can corrupt, mortal. Be humble, like this Kane warrior you’re constantly on about.”

  My cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. Every random thought is under scrutiny now. It’s the same as my room being invaded by House Mother.

  “On another note, I do not know the significance of trying to glimpse a woman’s backside, but you best focus on the task at hand.”

  “Shut up!”

  Boeru snickers through both ears, then vanishes.

  “Hey!” Jurso calls. “This cubby is big enough for everyone! It’s deep!” He swings in with an ear-to-ear grin, then pops his head out and grasps his chain, holding it out for the others to grab.

  Relief pours down my body like a warm bath—not for me, but for my team. Specifically Misty and Horo. As soon as she dives into the hole of red-lacquered wood, she crumbles to all fours, crawling quickly out of the way so the others can get in. Layla climbs in last before me, then holds out her big arm for me to grab.

  We share a smirk. First checkpoint on the way up together—just like I dreamt in the Sept chambers.

  “Good stuff, Lay.”

  “Guide and guard, baby.” She slaps my shoulders once I’m in.

  There’s enough room for me to stretch out my legs, and if I’m not mistaken… there’s a lighthearted feeling spreading between us.

  “An aura,” Renesta’s eyes glow white. “Low-level replenishment. It’s the same as what your dragon provides to injured war criminals in his prisons.”

  “The shade’s magical instincts are keen,” Boeru commends.

  “If there’s magic here, then we can definitely expect other obstacles on our way.” I inch over to Horo to inspect his wound. “How’s it feel?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He winces, backing away defensively. “Listen, guy. I appreciate you taking me along, but it ends here for me. I’m not fucking moving again.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  I notice his voice shaking, eyes darting back and forth away from me.

  Rogoshel grabs his collar. “The hell you’re not. You’ll die of embarrassment after that heroic stunt you pulled with the Dane. Don’t let that windbag get the better of you.”

  Horo twitches to get out of Rogo’s grasp. “Don’t touch me, fucking brute.” He spits on Rogo’s boot, and I’m forced to grab Horo’s cheeks with one hand to snap his attention to me.

  “This isn’t the place for mouthing off. You asked me to let you tag along… I let you. The condition is—no trouble.” I let go of Horo and nod at Layla to stay near Rogo—I can see him heating up.

  “Feel trapped. I’m gods-damn trapped.” Horo presses his palms flat against the floor, breathing becoming more labored. He crawls to the cubby entrance and sticks his head out, looking down. “My fucking gods.” His chest puffs and deflates rapidly.

  An anxiety attack of the worst kind.

  “Hey.” Misty crawls over and grabs both of his wrists. “Look at me. If I can do this, you can do this.”

  “Four weeks of it?” Horo asks. “No. Nope. I’m going back down.”

  “It’s suicide. You’d starve,” I assure.

  “No. I’ll find a way into the spire, just like you did.” His teeth clatter.

  “We went over this. I had the help of Tristian’s warring dark, and Layla’s strength.”

  “I don’t fucking care. I’ll dig a hole in the wood if I have to—swing myself in.”

  “And what then?” Layla says. “The Dane already stabbed you just for mouthing off. What do you think he’ll do when he finds you—a ragged sacrifice—sneaking into their royal tourist chambers?”

  “We have to climb, Horo,” I say with finality.

  “Screw that. You have to climb because you have something to prove. I’m done pleasing House Father, I’m done playing the Danes’ game.”

  “You’ll find nothing good in the spire,” I assure him.

  “The hell are you talking about? You got Jenny an aura—”

  “The tourists from up above, beyond the sky. They gather in the spire to watch us fall to our deaths. The Dane wasn’t kidding,” I say.

  The chatter goes silent.

  “They probably take bets in their fancy robes. Who’s going to lose their grip, who’s going to make it. Probably have drawings of us too, scratching us off while eating their lavish trigo meats.” Misty wrinkles her nose.

  “She’s right.” I focus on Horo. “Which is why we have to make it up. We’re going to grow strong and fix this upside-down world.”

  Horo scoffs. “The big bad dragonborn—stuck in a cubby somewhere in the sky.”

  Layla punches the ground. “Knock it off.”

  “I’m out. You pissants can climb and grovel and kill yourselves for those high-magic slavers. I’m finding my own way. Don’t—” He shrugs Rogo and Misty off of him. “I’m taking Jurso’s chain down.”

  All of us have our arms outstretched pleadingly, but he’s already half out of the hole, reaching for the chain.

  “Let him go,” I sigh.

  “Hale…” Jurso says.

  “He might be the wisest of us. Who’s to say?” I ask rhetorically. “Horo! Look for Nirele Teenere if you make it to the spire. You can’t trust anyone else.” He gives no acknowledgement of my words. “As for the rest of us, we’re making it up that spire.”

  The magical chain crackles as Horo descends down in a panic. We all pop our heads out to wish him luck, before he disappears in a growing mist beneath us. I turn all the way around to glimpse what awaits us above. The climbing grooves seem smaller and more widely dispersed, marking a more difficult stage of the journey.

  “Hale,” my name prickles my ears. “Hale, check this out.”

  I retract back into the cubby where Jurso and Renesta press their hands on the wooden wall on the left side. Every time their skin presses over one section, cinders burst from the wood, carving lines of fiery light before disappearing.

  Misty crawls aggressively over Layla and Rogo to join them. The more hands, the more cinder swirls to life.

  “It’s taking shape!” Jurso shouts.

  Letters. D. O. N. O. T.

  “Quick, Lay, c’mere.” Misty grabs her wrist and drags her closer to the wall. “You too, you big brute.” She beckons Rogo. The sight is comical.

  “Do not trust them?” Jurso’s brow furrows. “Hale, c’mere.”

  I crawl over and accept Layla’s pull closer to the wall. It’s hot like a simmering tea kettle. But my hand does nothing to help more letters form. That’s the message. Quick. Simple. And extremely cryptic.

  “Who could’ve written that?” Layla asks.

  “One of the siblings from our group?” Misty suggests.

  “Nah.” Jurso pulls his hand away and sits in a cross-legged position, watching the cinders swirl. “None of them have that level of attunement. Maybe someone from a different day. We’re lot twenty-eight of thirty, right? So, potentially a warning from an earlier group.”

  I shake my head. That’s not right.

  “Hale?” Layla looks to me.

  “It couldn’t have been. This is high magic.” I scan through the warring dark mythos in my head. “Shadow manifesting. Dark accelerants. Cloaks, shades, speed, and instinct. None of that is apparent here. This is fire, with no hint of warring dark attached to it.”

  “That we know of.” Jurso tilts his head at me.

  “True,” I agree. “But it feels the same as when the Danes were whispering in code to one another. Doesn’t it? It has their scent.”

  “Signature, actually.” Renesta’s eyes fade from glowing white to emerald in the firelight. “House Father had a similar one. This is not of the warring dark.”

  “If it’s the Danes, then who wouldn’t they want us to trust?” Misty asks.

  “Another test, probably,” I say. “We scour the pits of Miria with unreliable spectators guiding our every move. I say we ignore them until we break free of our shackles. Continue the path.”

  The truth is, I’m as confused as they are, but I don’t want the group to devolve more than it already has.

  An hour goes by—where the others show their duel scabs to one another. It’s amazing how fast magic heals. Back at House Kavoh, I’d be in bed for a week after a good stable lashing. Here? Give us a few hours and we’re scaling mountains.

  When the opportunity is right, I pull Layla and Renesta to the far side of the cubby—away from the “do not trust them” message everyone is still huddled around.

  “Keep watch, act natural,” I whisper in Layla’s ear. She affirms by stretching out near a curve in the wall, blocking anyone from coming up to us.

  I press my hand on the wood, pretending I’m looking for another message, and nod for Renesta to do the same. Am I letting the message get to me? I’m not sure, but I know for a fact that it got to Rogo and Misty, so this is a play of caution.

  “I need to ask something of you,” I whisper. “For the good of the group.”

  The way a few strands of hair fall over her perfect skin makes me weak. We’re alone, in a dark cove, death whispering at us on every turn… my gaze flicks to Layla, whose hard stare dumps cold water on my wandering thoughts.

  I refocus on what matters.

  “Hm?”

  “Become a shade, if you can. Reach upward. See how far the spire stretches, find the obstacles that await us.”

  She narrows her eyes at me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You speak as if I have no limitations.”

  “Tristian throws around his warring dark like it’s a limitless well. And I know in my bones you have more attunement than him.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. And I believe he’s a shade too, since he called Rogoshel’s name even though he’s from a faraway house.”

  She chuckles at me. “Wouldn’t the more sensible guess be that he overheard someone else say his name?”

  I stare evenly at her, stifling the heat rising into my cheeks.

  “You are a paranoid one, Haledyn. It may one day lead you to madness.”

  She’s not answering my question. I’m onto something. What’s worse—she’s holding back.

  Renesta sighs and looks down at her hands.

  “Layla will protect you if it takes time. We are one,” I assure.

  She nods, still looking down. “It causes strain. That’s why I do it before sleep.”

  My eyes perk up.

  “Hopefully this aura makes it less so,” she says.

  “Be our eyes, Ren.”

  “Alright. Give me space and time,” she sighs, pressing her back against the wall and letting her head fall back.

  For another hour we strategize, while in the back of my mind I wonder why the Danes would want to pit us against one another. We’re supposed to be soldiers. Shouldn’t we be forging bonds? Not being skeptical of one another?

  Unless… they’re still trying to temper our blood. Distrust is probably a prime variant. Gods… is there another Sealed Circle we’re climbing to in our second house?

  “No,” Boeru brings me back to reality. “The rituals are done. The Sept only pulls from the pits of this world. They believe depth to correlate with potency. The fools.”

  “Then why?” I ask.

  Boeru only huffs in response, telling me he doesn’t know.

  Renesta jolts awake, gasping for air. Layla turns abruptly, as do a few others.

  “Someone had a bad dream,” I joke. Even though the jig may be up, I decide it’s not wise to reveal the extent of Renesta’s warring dark trait. The decision guilts me, honestly. We’re all supposed to be marked—one unit. But the message makes me think each group has a rat. To be honest, my eyes only flick to Rogoshel and Misty, now that Horo’s gone. They’re the two wild cards. Misty asked me to join in a spurt of innocence, on the surface at least. And Rogo’s snarl would make anyone question his loyalty.

  They can’t know about Renesta. Not yet.

  I crawl over to Layla, waiting for the others to go back to their business, then nod for Renesta to join us.

  “We must move, Haledyn,” she whispers.

  My brow furrows. “Why?”

  “Broggen’s group made it to the next cove within the spire. They conversed about a message in there—‘the strangling mist takes no prisoners.’”

  “Gods.” My nostrils flare. “There was mist accumulating as Horo descended the chain. It’s rising.”

  “Yes. That’s not all. Someone in his group snuffed out my shade. It felt like death, Haledyn.” Renesta swallows past a lump. It’s only now I realize her eyes are glassy. “Their attunement grows in his care.”

  “He knows too much,” I agree, then grab her quivering hands. Sparks fly—one way, at least. Her touch makes my entire body light up like a hearth. In the corner of my eye, I notice Layla’s lip twitch. “Are you alright to move? That mist was accumulating fast.”

  She nods, glancing awkwardly at my hands holding hers. I immediately retract.

  “Horo… the mouthy kid is dead,” Layla scoffs.

  I purse my lips. “I wouldn’t be so sure. He gripped the chain for a long while. Maybe the mist wasn’t strong enough to hurt us yet. Or maybe the entire thing is one of Relias’ tricks to get us moving.”

  “Not staying to find out though,” Layla huffs.

  “Hell no.”

  “What about the others?” she asks.

  “It’s time to place full trust in our crew, unless you have any reservations.” I turn to face Layla. Looking into her bright blue eyes, I see a moment taken place countless times before. Back in House Kavoh, we had to let others into our two-person team before. We’ve made mistakes, and we’ve also made friends.

  “Mph. The only one that irks me is that bastard we grew up with.”

  “Rogoshel has a mouth on him, sure. He’s been pushing our buttons since the beginning,” I say, careful not to glance his way.

  “He wanted you to die, Hale,” Layla speaks through gritted teeth.

  I find the obvious statement humorous. “Watching him take on Tovore and Dontrill two-on-one back in the stables, who were we hoping would get beaten bloody?”

  Layla snorts at that, side-eyeing Rogo. “I bet good coin on that.”

  “We both did,” I laugh with her. “He’s one of us, I think.”

  In truth, I’m convincing myself as much as I am her.

  “We good?” I ask.

  “Yeah, run with it.”

  “Renesta?”

  She just nods again, still rubbing her neck as if she was recently choked. “I was forthright from the get go. It is our suspicious dragonborn who is ripe with paranoia.”

  “Mm. Alright, Lay, just keep that massive shield ready in case he gets pissed,” I say, then turn to the others. “Everyone, I know it’s comfortable in here, but it’s time to depart immediately. Renesta revealed that one of her attunement abilities is to morph into a shade, so I asked her to scout out what’s above us.”

  “Is that what all that whispering was about over there? Figured you were trying your runty moves on her.” Rogoshel folds his arms.

  “I figured I had a shot, since there’s no way she’d date a stable beast,” I hit back. The others cackle, and even Rogo hoots. “Alright, listen. There’s another message in the next cave—about a ‘strangling mist’ rising.”

  “Shit,” Jurso realizes immediately.

  “Yeah, we have to move.”

  I’m shocked there isn’t more bickering about my shade reveal. Is it possible they trust my decision as leader? Or perhaps it’s fear of the dragonborn bond. After all, I did come back from the dead, kind of.

  The sound of weapons shoving back into sheaths and fastening onto backs resonates around me. And before I know it, we’re lined up in the same positions—Jurso first.

  “The mist is much thicker.” Jurso frowns as he peeks out the cubby entrance. “And it is, indeed, rising.”

  My mind’s been spinning since Renesta returned from her trance. Strangling mist doesn’t sound like high magic. In fact, mythos speaks of poison essence as a blend between dark and light—whatever that means. The problem? Danes haven’t given any inkling of such attunement. So is this someone new?

  “I forgot how fucking terrible this is.” Jurso grabs for his chain as warm winds pick up, blowing his hair every which direction.

  “How much slack does he have?” I ask Renesta quietly.

  “Another two thousand feet, give or take.” She snaps her tongue.

  “Gods, that man can shoot an arrow. Is it close to the next rest spot?”

  “Yes. It seems Mister Lor’fyre has an eagle’s eye among his other dark talents. We’d be best to watch out for him.” She rubs her neck again.

  “Now who’s being paranoid? I’m trying to keep us on the same side.”

  My team carefully hauls themselves up toward the next grooves. There’s no shortage of anxiety going back out there, but there’s more energy too. The aura worked wonders. We can do this.

  When my time comes, I peek toward the rising mist, morbidly picturing us choking to death in that cove had Renesta not warned us. Skirting death again…

  Extending my right arm is an effortless pull up into the next rubber groove. Seeing one less body above me makes me wonder about Horo. Did he make it into the spire? Or did he choke on the nest? Sucks being around death so much. I miss being able to go to bed after a good beating…

  But the magical pressure swirling over my forearms… this new body… the potential… it makes it all worth it.

  “All set?” I shout above me, noting the strain of reaching for farther-out grooves. “Misty? Alright?”

  “Good, Hale. Don’t worry about me!” she shouts back.

  The aura even calmed Jurso’s Arkitus for the time being. I’m grateful. There’s a path to hope. If each cove has a similar aura, we can do this methodically. Safely. No one has to die.

  An hour of glacially slow climbing goes by smoothly—not a hiccup except for one near miss by Rogoshel, of all people. His food sack strap nearly got caught on a peg, but everyone held, and my reflexes proved reliable when I quickly hopped two grooves over to position myself under him.

  Not sure if the magical essence roaring through me would’ve been enough to hold a man of that size, but I was ready.

  He’s been grumbling to himself ever since. This trial will humble us all.

  Two more hours of climbing, and I notice the twilight switch to afternoon green seeping through the darkness. Now we’re fighting two elements—the rising poisonous mist, and the cold snap that’ll undoubtedly hit next morning. We have to plan accordingly.

  A chain rattles above me, drawing my attention. The sound whips hard like someone just fell.

  I look up to see Jurso chugging along just fine…

  Chng!

  Another loud noise, then I see Grondus swinging with one hand, double-sided axe leaking black essence in the other.

  “Hold!” I yell.

  What in gods—

  Grondus catches himself in a groove about ten feet above us, arms alive with the warring dark. Teeth are bloody from spice. What is going on? He should be miles ahead of us.

  “Tisk, tisk, Dragonborn.” Grondus stops right beside Jurso’s chain, taunting us all. “You should never have interfered. How did Lord Gen put it? Ah, right. A disturbance of good faith.” He holds his axe wide.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I call from the rear, my forearms crisscrossing with power.

  He points his axe directly at Renesta, and all becomes clear. Her shade was snuffed out… by Broggen or Tristian. They thought she was spying on them.

  “Now I come with a message. House Valor does not deal in deception. A body for an eye.”

  My breath hitches. “No!”

  With a hard cackle, he swings his magically infused axe, severing Jurso’s chain, sending him in a free fall.