I wake up next to a woman twice my age and a strap on the table. Warm, gold light streams in, hitting me in the face. I recoil and roll over.

  Sunai’s not much of a town – it’s got something close to an inn, but it’s more of a common hall with a bar. A hostel. Out back, there’s a few yurts to sleep in. I remember stumbling in from the beach last night, retrieving my things from Arriel, parking myself at the bar, and then sweet relief.

  I fumble for my flask. It’s next to my pillow, as always. It’s almost empty. I sit up, taking a long drink. I rub my face. It’s still numb.

  I’ve gotta get out of here. Help sounded like a good idea at the time. I shouldn’t have let Arriel and Weekes talk me into it. I shouldn’t have talked with Irminric. I’m worse off than I was a week ago. I’ve gotta get moving and find somewhere to eke out a living where he won’t find me. Kennobe, maybe? At least I don’t need to worry about a Player’s License there. My chances of finding a patron to hide under are higher, but still slim - as if anyone would take me in this state, or resist cashing the bounty. Or there’s Carthesia. It’s a long way from the Isles, and easy to get lost in. But with its vast populace, the chances of someone turning me in are higher. Maybe sticking to the wilderness is better. My throat’s dry. I take another drink. It's always possible that Arriel and Weekes decide to turn me in, too. Even for someone as rich as her, 20,000 gold is a stupid amount of money. Maybe I shouldn’t have trusted them.

  The woman next to me stirs. Kaga’s her name. She’s human with long, black hair beginning to turn ashy gray. She's newly widowed and headed to Guildania. It’s the capital of Horonai – more officially called Shirano. She’s trying her luck there now that she can’t keep the farm by herself. It’ll be hard, she thinks, especially hearing the stories of people trying to make it work there. Most can't get out. But they promise prosperity and dignified work to all who are willing. I don’t ask about those who aren’t.

  “Good morning,” I say, smiling. I lay back down. “And what a gorgeous sight waking up to.”

  “Morning, handsome,” she returns. She takes my flask, swigs from it, and hands it back. “You never mentioned where Seven Oaks is. You sound Torgalish.”

  “Northern Talnir,” I say. “It’s been part of the Dynasty, off and on. An old dragon almost wiped us out once – this washed-up knight came through, claiming he could kill it. It was a ruse. They were working together, splitting the gold. I traveled with them for a while.”

  She smiles, the lines around her mouth creasing. “How adventurous. I hope you’re not leaving so soon.” She rolls, straddling me and brushing her long hair aside. She’s warm. I forget anything besides thighs.

  “I’m easily enticed to stick around,” I say.

  “Feels like it. How about another turn on your hand?” she purrs, kissing me. There’s certainly something to be said for experience. My blood starts trickling downward.

  “You're asking too nicely.”

  She corrects that, nails dug in where it hurts exquisitely well. I hum and flick my hand out, a pink arcane hand hovering in the air. It weaves, searching between her legs. It starts vibrating.

  It’s noon before I get my things together, sling my mandolin on, check my swords, and exit the yurt. I’ll head northwest into the Guildland Forest and try getting lost there. I push into the common hall. I fill my two flasks and drop my last bit of coin on breakfast and the bottle sitting behind the bar, too. I’m not sure where I'll find the next town. I wrap up my food and tuck it away. I can’t afford sticking around for Arriel and Weekes to find.

  I head out the sliding door and stop. They’re talking and leaning against a fence just outside, fully packed and armored.

  I sigh. I could’ve just teleported. With my nondetection spell, it would’ve been a massive headache for Arriel. It would’ve been the smart thing to do. Maybe I wanted them to find me. Or maybe I’m an idiot, sometimes.

  I scratch underneath my eye. The mandolin hums on my back. I tease a ley line. “I hope you’re both having as lovely a morning as I am.”

  Their eyes flash pink. Arriel blinks and shakes her head. Her fair brows pull together. Weekes goes blank for a moment, then smiles. “Hey. Good morning,” he coos, looking at me with big rabbit eyes.

  “What did you do?” Arriel demands. “Did you just try to – did you charm him?”

  “Of course not,” I say. I clap a hand on his shoulder. “We’re best friends. I’ve got no reason to.”

  Weekes nods along. He’s still missing an ear, looking like a broken fork. “Yeah. He didn’t do anything.”

  I’m almost certain she can get rid of it, but it’ll cost her a spell she might need later. If only I'd caught her in it, too.

  “I’m a bit low on coin. Have you got any?” I ask him.

  “Oh, absolutely,” he says. He pulls a purse from his pocket. “How much do you need?”

  “All of it. Your patron daddy can get you more, right?”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Here.” He hands me the whole thing. I peek inside. It’s easily ten gold. I'm lucky I don't fill both sides of my pants. I tuck it away. I can drink that into next month.

  “Well, pardon me for not sticking around to chat,” I say. I nod, stepping around them, taking a drink from my flask.

  “Chouncey,” Arriel says. “Are you leaving?”

  I sigh and turn, gesturing with my flask. “Look, I don’t want to do this. You’d best get on back to your wife. Take him with you, or at least find him a friend. His poor self’s still a virgin.”

  “I told you I’m staying with you.”

  “No – it’s not that easy!” I snap. I don’t know why I’m angry all the sudden. Maybe it’s Weekes’ big, wavering eyes. Or the fact that she’s stubborn as a crippled mule. The churning, black waters in my head begin crashing and foaming. “There’s no point in either of you being here. This isn't some grand adventure where I turn out a hero. The likely outcome is me being split open on a rock for the tide. There’s no happy ending. There’s no slaves going free, there’s no injustice being toppled, there’s no song being sung about me. I’m yet another penurious and blatted minstrel in a ditch, and people still don’t care about what happens on that island. You’re not gonna fix me. Save yourself the time and effort of chasing me around and go home.”

  “Oh,” Weekes says, shoulders sagging. “Okay.”

  Arriel grabs him by his collar, steering him back into our group. She pauses for a long moment. “There won’t be a happy ending if you don’t try to make one -”

  I shrug, sweeping my arms out. “Well, fuck me. The wisdom of the gods, right in front of me. I've just gotta try harder. I've not heard that before.”

  “And you don’t have to do it all by yourself,” she says evenly. “You’re not alone.”

  It’s a knife in my gut. I’m getting jittery. I take a long drink. They don’t know the half of it.

  “Yeah,” Weekes says. “We’re best friends, right?”

  “I don’t trust anything you’re saying right now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ask me in an hour.”

  Arriel cuts in. “I can’t begin to understand what happened, and I’m sorry it did. I’m trying to say that you’re worthy of help, even if you don’t think you are –”

  “No, stop.” I point at her with my flask. “We’re not doing that.” The blackness is starting to spray and burble upward. I’m getting shaky. I keep myself together. I need to get out of here. “Why did you even help me, praying to your god? Back in the cell.”

  She pauses again. She’s parsing out what she’s gonna say when she does that, I’m starting to realize. “You were dying, for one. I didn’t realize it was that bad. But aside from that, there are two answers. One of them you won’t like. The other one’s more practical.”

  “Well, I don’t like any of this. Let’s not break habit.”

  “I care about you,” she says. “So does Weekes. Other people may not, and I understand why – believe me, I do. You’re one of the most infuriating and abrasive people I’ve ever met. You frankly suck sometimes. Everyone knows you’re drunk all the time, and it’s embarrassing when you try to pretend otherwise. You reek of whiskey everywhere you go. In fact, I live in fear of someone lighting a match near you. But I’ve seen some other things, too. You helped him when we were in trouble that wasn’t your fault. You took us with you when you could’ve just run off on your own. And you chose not to kill him in the first place, even when he could’ve turned you in for money. I think you have a good and worthwhile heart somewhere under there, even if… even if Irminric tried to break you.”

  “You don’t know the fucking half of it,” I snap. It’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

  She continues, shrugging. Her armor clanks. “The other reason is that you're right. The clergy and the church should’ve stepped in a long time ago. Iros calls us to spread light wherever there’s darkness, and if we’re not toppling oppressive governments and breaking chains, then what are we doing? They’re complicit in this, which means I am, too. Yes, there’s a god of nightmares trying to take over the world, and… a time will come when I need to save everyone. But maybe all Iros needs me to do right now is save one person.”

  I take another drink. I’m starting to spin. There’s only the roar of bottomless black water in my head. And what I need most right now is to go somewhere and cry. I can’t stay around these two. They’re making everything worse. I turn and start walking.

  She clanks around me, blocking the path. “Hey. It’ll be okay.”

  “I – what do you want me to say to all that?” I hiss.

  She squeezes my arms. Her face is soft, brushed with tiny blonde hairs escaping her bun. I wish she’d not look at me like that. It’s not making any of this easier. “You don’t have to say anything. Just stay. Rest. It’s too late to make much progress today, wherever you’re going. Let’s take another day and come up with a plan. Give us another chance before you decide you’re better off alone.”

  Weekes appears, hugging me. “I love you.”

  “We really need to get you some friends.”

  “I have two right here.”

  It’s another stab in the gut. But maybe not the bad kind. I turn to Arriel. “You heard him - we're all friends, now.”

  She laughs. She snorts a little. It’s like a sudden warm ray of sunshine splitting through a cloud.

  I cock my head, pointing at her with my flask. “Did I just make you laugh?”

  It vanishes. Her usual stern expression comes back. “No.”

  “You saw it, right, Cheeks?”

  “Yeah. She laughed.”

  He’s still hugging me. “Say something nice about me.”

  “I think you smell good.”

  I tuck my flask away. In my head, black water’s still churning. But it eases a little. “Alright. We’ll head out tomorrow.” I drape an arm over both their shoulders. Arriel pushes it off. And we head back into the hall.

  We spend the rest of the day in Sunai. I sit and eat breakfast while Arriel takes another look at Weekes’ ear stump. I tell her to do it before the charm wears off, while he’s more agreeable. She fishes his ear from her magical hole, taking one look at it and deciding she’ll grow him a new one. I give it to a nearby cat, who runs off with it.

  I watch her say a long prayer, touching his stump. A new ear sprouts. It comes back naked, without any fur. I draw stares laughing. It turns blazing red.

  He’s not happy about it. It’s maddeningly itchy, he says, scratching it raw. Nor is he happy realizing he gave me all his gold under the charm. I pass it back on the promise he’ll help me out. He seems eager enough, tearing through the village to drum up hype about the show I’ll be doing tonight. I retrieve the weapons and armor I got from the jail and get about 50 silver for them from the only fence in town.

  Thanks to Weekes, three-quarters of the town arrives for the show at the common hall that night. I rake in a few more silver playing local songs and a few exotic ones from northern Talnir and Vesh. I throw up an illusion, shaping the sights, lights, and sounds along with my music. It gives me all the power of a whole band - and them some - but without the troubles. And it illuminates the delight and astonishment in the faces of common people, realizing the ley lines can produce not just wanton destruction, but light, fellowship, and joy. All the while, Arriel and Weekes sit at the nearest table, drinking, watching, and chatting. They look happy.

  We spend the night in one of the yurts, nestled in Weekes' necklace. Arriel nudges me awake at first light. It’s far too early. I top off my flasks, stuff down breakfast, and we take off south.

  I’m not exactly sure where to go, but we’ve gotta find the shore to find raiders. It’s a full day’s walking to get there. I play and sing for a while, Weekes joining in. He’s terrible, making up for the tone in volume, but at least he’s not thinking about his new ear sticking out like bare skin at a prude party. I catch him gnawing on it at one point. I play “The Lady Cleric” to Weekes’ enjoyment. Arriel only clanks along in silence, scouring a trail with the stick up her ass.

  We finally come in sight of the ocean, the breezy smell of salt and dunes clinging to the air. It’s a bright and warm day, edging toward late afternoon.

  About a quarter mile down the beach is a tiny village. It’s only fisherpeople in yurts who probably trade with Sunai. A birdfolk accosts us just outside.

  “We have no truck with outsiders if they don’t mean harm,” she squawks. She looks like a seagull. “What brings you here?”

  “We’re just passing,” I say. “I’m offering a bit of music and entertainment if you’re feeling the itch.”

  She looks me up and down. More people start appearing, murmuring and straining for a glimpse. A small half-elf child tumbles and skids face-first down a dune. I cackle before catching myself. Arriel shoots me a look.

  “As long as it’s family-friendly. We’re decent folk here,” the birdfolk says.

  I take a drink from my flask. “I’d not dream of bringing sin and villainy to your lovely village. My family here walks a straight path.”

  Within the crowd, I spot a sleek young maridon eyeing me. I pass off a quick smile and a glance.

  “What’s new?” I ask. “Any sign of raiders?”

  Everyone goes quiet. The birdfolk speaks. “We’ve seen them. Kiyokoshi was raided the other day. They’re a few miles east. They weren’t just raided, though – they didn’t take anyone. They just killed them. We’ve been hurrying to pack up and move further inland.”

  My stomach twists. I turn away. Weekes puts a paw-hand on me. Irminric’s just killing and looting, hoping I’m there. All those people had no idea it was because of me. And this village might be next. They might wake up in the middle of the night to their whole world rocked upside down. I push down what’s shooting to the surface.

  “Maybe we can help you,” I say, turning back. “If you’ve got a fire for the night, we can get you to Sunai safely. They might have use for you.”

  More murmurs bubble up. The birdfolk nods, looking us over. We look, among other things, highly capable. “That would be mighty helpful. Come in.”

  Arriel gives me an approving look as we start moving. I ignore it.

  We camp around a large fire and spend the evening chatting with these fine people. I play another show and scrape together a few unexpected copper, creating illusory fireworks for the kids. I grit my teeth and keep it clean, knowing that birdfolk’s tracking me. The slender maridon’s attention is riveted on me, too. Their dewy skin glistens bluish-green in the firelight, and their long, purplish hair is damp and stringy, tucked behind a frilled ear. I snap my fingers, passing them a small, pink, heart-shaped token when no one’s looking. They smile shyly.

  I bed down by the fire, and not too long after that, they appear and quietly beckon me off.

  The next morning, I wake up in a yurt to someone banging on the door. Somehow, I already know it’s Arriel.

  “Chouncey, we need you outside. Quickly.”

  I stretch, sipping from my flask. “Sorry,” I say to Sulevi. Their arms are wrapped around me. “The wife’s calling.”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “I am not your wife,” Arriel says sternly through the door.

  Sulevi laughs. It's like the quaint trickle of a clear, dewy stream. “Not anymore, yes?”

  “She thinks the world’s flat, anyway,” I say, rolling over and giving them a lingering parting kiss.

  I dress and get my things together, then stumble into the village, fixing my hair. Arriel and Weekes are waiting. I glance around. The village is utterly empty.

  Arriel turns me toward the water. “There’s a ship.”

  I squint. It’s eye-wateringly bright. I’m still waking up. I need something to eat. “I’m not seeing anything.”

  “Come on.”

  She and Weekes pull me down the beach. We head up a tall dune, crouching under the edge. We’re hidden behind reeds and grass. “Here,” Weekes says, handing me a spyglass of all things. It takes me a long moment of searching before Arriel points me in the right direction. Finally, I see it. I freeze.

  It’s a longship.

  It’s not just any longship. Through the spyglass, I spot a wolf crest on its sails. It’s from Reesh. And it’s a big longship – maybe their biggest.

  “That smooth fucking clodpole,” I spit, handing the spyglass back.

  “What?” Weekes says.

  “I’d bet that’s Torm.”

  My stomach twists, and at the same time, my blood simmers. I should’ve known he slaughtered that other village. He and his raiders probably laughed all the while. Maybe he even strung some of them up for practice.

  “I’m gonna fucking kill him,” I say through my teeth.

  “How can we help?” Arriel asks.

  I stop. I need a plan. We three can’t fight them if they make land, and I won’t endanger the village trying to rally them. But Torm doesn’t know I’m here yet. And he’s too simple to think I’d do anything other than fight him directly.

  I turn and skid down the dune, kicking up sand. They follow. I’ve got a plan cranking through my head. I whirl. “I’m going out there,” I say.

  “I’ll go with you,” Weekes declares, a dark shimmer of magical armor around him. He’s got that pathetic, eager look in his eye. His new ear’s still bare except for the beginnings of peachy fuzz growing in. He scratches it.

  “No. It's gotta be in and out. Make sure everyone here stays hidden, and be ready if any raiders make it to shore,” I say.

  “If?” Arriel says.

  There’s not much time. If Torm catches sight of us, we’ll lose our surprise. I dig around her belt, pulling the black coin from her purse. She huffs, letting me. I flick it down on the sand. The black hole appears.

  I drop down into it. Sand scatters with me. A small nation’s worth of valuables is at the bottom – piles of platinum coins, potions, supplies, papers, clothes, books, scrolls, and magical items. There’s that immovable item she locked me in my room with – it’s a small pole. An empty jug sits next to it. I step around a whole pile of diamonds. There’s a wide-brimmed hat with feathers. A gun. A body is behind some crates. I don't have time to think about it. I search around.

  “What are you looking for?” Arriel’s face appears overhead.

  “Did you bring the whole estate with you?” I throw back. “Or at least the important bits.”

  I hold up a pair of lacy panties.

  “Do not touch that!”

  There it is – the canister I found in the prison. I heft it up and lob it onto the sand. I jump and catch the edge of the hole, pulling myself out. More sand cascades in. That’s never coming out. I stand and pick up the hole, handing it back to her.

  “Chouncey, what is that?” It’s becoming a familiar tone.

  “This is a bomb,” I say, examining the canister. I find a coil of rope tucked in one end and pull it out. It’s about two feet long.

  “Do you know anything about explosives?”

  “Cheeks, you’re smart. How quick do these burn?”

  “I have no idea,” he says with a shrug, scratching his ear.

  “We’ll find out, then.”

  She puts a hand over her eyes, then holds it out. “Wait – there’s something I can do, but it will take a few minutes.”

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “I can make a storm,” she says. She tugs out her amulet, clanking past me. “I’ll get started now. Please don’t blow us up.”

  There’s only cold, hard determination in her voice. It’s doing things to me. I gawk at Weekes, but he only shrugs. She begins chanting a prayer, holding her amulet aloft. It’s glowing. Her eyes are glowing. The world starts to bend around the immense magic channeling. It snatches my breath away. Or maybe it’s the wind picking up.

  Weekes and I work on the bomb. I snap my fingers and light the end of the fuse before he promptly snuffs it in the sand. He cuts a small piece of rope off and lights that instead. He holds a timepiece, and we both watch it burn. I work out the math, sketching and measuring with an illusion. I’ll have just under twenty seconds before the whole thing blows.

  A couple minutes later, Arriel’s hair is whipping around and rain is sheeting sideways. Dark clouds roil overhead. Lightning flashes in the distance. Weekes peers through the spyglass at the top of the dune.

  “They’re slowing down!” he calls. I can barely hear him over the wind.

  “Alright, I’m going!”

  I breathe, taking a slug from my flask. It’s now or never. I close my eyes, picturing Torm’s longship. I’ve seen it a hundred times, bobbing in the harbor. There’s a high deck at the back, under which is a small cabin.

  I light the bomb, heft it up, and sing:

  Take me to this half-giant chode

  Preferably before I explode

  The pink magic swirls and wrenches my stomach upside down for a split second. Then, I’m standing on a deck.

  The ship churns and lurches with the storm. Raiders heave at their oars. One of Torm’s jarls stalks the deck, shouting orders over the noise. The wolf-embroidered sails strain in the wind.

  A few of them spot me. They stare.

  I heft the bomb down. The rope is burning quick. I strum a few quick chords on my mandolin. A pink square appears in my vision. I slap it onto the deck. It opens.

  I look down to see Torm just out of bed, half-turgid cock out, putting pants on.

  He looks up. We gawk at each other for a split second. He puts a hand up to block the rain pouring in. He’s certainly got giant’s blood, and most of it where I can see it.

  “Well, good morning,” I say, recalling the lit bomb at my feet.

  “What in the hells –”

  “Here’s for Keo, you dogfucker.”

  I kick the bomb into the cabin and close the hole behind it.

  Shouts pour from the deck below. I whirl. Raiders are coming to their senses, diving for crossbows. The oars tangle up, forgotten. A bolt punches into my side. I grunt. I sprint to the edge of the ship. Another bolt hits just short of my foot. I shoulder-roll over the rail, the magic halfway out of my mouth before I hit the water.

  Take me far enough away

  Before I’m only red sea spray

  My stomach lurches, and I hit sand.

  I thrash to my feet, whirling. Where in the hells am I? I strain through the sheeting rain. Lightning and thunder are pounding the water, the sky boiling black. The dark outline of the ship is nearly smothered. If anyone jumped, they’ve not made it far. A quarter mile down the beach, a speck of gold light glows like a beacon.

  Then it becomes daytime for a split second.

  The explosion thumps my chest. An arc of light and debris rockets skyward, illuminating the disintegrating outline of the longship. Fire roars, blasting smoke and wood into the water. Whatever’s left goes up in flames, sinking quickly under the waves. Within a couple moments, there’s nothing.

  I laugh. I come to my knees in the sand. I’m shivering and soaking wet, but it’s more than rain streaming down my face. It’s an odd feeling – one that’s not touched me in years, far less familiar than the sting of a whip. It’s hope. I wipe my face, for all the good it does. My hands smell like black powder. But I smell ale and musty wood, too, as I have for five soul-crushing years. For a moment, in the droning wind and rain, I dare to let myself believe Torm’s dead – nothing but pink fish food. And I’m an inch closer to true freedom. I swallow thickly. It’s dark and storming fiercely, but the world seems brighter. I stagger to my feet. Knowing Irminric will get word makes it even better. He’ll know I’m coming for him.

  I stand and plod back toward the village. The wind begins to die down, and the storm fizzles, leaving only gray skies. By the time I return, the sun’s out again.

  “Gods, there you are!” I hear a familiar voice. Arriel clanks toward me. Weekes is right behind her. “We didn’t know if you got off or not.”

  “Oh, I certainly got off,” I say, cocking a brow.

  She smacks me lightly on the side. She stops. “Are you okay?”

  I glance down. There’s a crossbow bolt sticking out of me. That's right. I hardly felt it. Blood seeps slowly down my side. I gag, finding Weekes' shoulder.

  “Would you like me to take care of it?”

  I sigh, trying not to look at it. She must have a thing about healing. “Alright, fine.”

  “That was insane,” Weekes says. He’s aquiver. “And incredible. We saved all these people.”

  “We saved a lot more than these ones,” I say quietly.

  “You did,” Arriel says. “And you should be proud.”

  I take a long swig of my flask. I can only nod.

  Weekes stokes a fire, and she steers me toward it. The storm brought cold with it. I'm freezing, especially now the adrenaline’s starting to wear off. The villagers emerge at Weekes’ announcement that the danger is gone. He tells them what happened, with a bit of embellishing. I sit on a stump with a blanket, once again putting my chain jacket together with magic. Arriel tugs the crossbow bolt out of me, holding her glowing hands over the hole in my side. It’s warm and pleasant, unlike when I use the mandolin. And it does quite a bit more help.

  The villagers come by, congratulating and thanking me. I don’t often get attention like this. I could certainly get used to being a hero. Sulevi, seeing me recovering, sits by me, holding my hand and giggling while we chat. They sneak a long, deep kiss in thanks. I catch a murderous glare from the birdfolk.

  We spend the next few hours helping the villagers pack. Torm may be gone, but Irminric and Catherine are still out there. We still need to get these people somewhere safer. Finally, the wreckage starts washing up. I head to the beach, checking for any survivors. I find only a few bodies – the few who weren’t blasted apart in an instant. The rest is a mess of wood, oars, and canvas. I poke through belongings, but don’t find much. Anything valuable is at the bottom of the ocean. Weekes has his water-breathing spell, but we’ve gotta get these people out of here.

  I stand there for a long while. Maybe Arriel was right – maybe there can be a happy ending to this, if I try. I breathe, taking a long drink from my flask. If nothing else, one of them is dead. But I’m nowhere near done yet.

  I turn to go, but stop. Poking from a couple pieces of hull is a familiar handle.

  I tug on it. It’s stuck. I grunt and shift aside a large chunk of ship. The handle comes loose. I pull it out. It keeps coming. From between the pieces of wood comes a long thread of leather.

  A whip.

  I look at it. A faint protective enchantment flares off it. I turn it over in my hands, feeling it. I’ve felt it plenty of times before, but never like this.

  I flick it out on the sand, then turn. I snap it against the wood. Splinters fly with a crack.

  The sound splits my head. I clench my teeth. I coil it around my elbow, then fix it to my belt. And I turn and head back to the village.

  I dream that night, which is odd.

  Normally, I drink myself stupid to prevent that very thing. But it still comes through, clear as day. I become aware of the crushing feeling of deep water. It’s pitch black, cold, and oppressive, creeping into the cracks of my consciousness. Then, it breaks. It roars in my ears, holding me down, crashing and breaking against rocky cliffsides. I thrash. It’s a feeling of dying, panicking, and the unending, itching, burning need to make it go away – all at once. Or maybe it’s the feeling of being on that island, all five years pressurized into a single moment, a single feeling. Screams freeze in my throat. There's no air, only frigid water in my lungs.

  And then light splits through.

  It’s blinding. I try to look away, but it’s all around. The roaring intensifies, thrumming and humming. The water is incinerated. It vanishes, leaving only warm light.

  And suddenly, I’m somewhere.

  It’s a lavish room. I look around, gasping. The décor is oddly similar to the long hall – rustic wood and furs – but it's not as shoddy. I turn again. A vast, wide bed takes up the middle of the room. It’s heart-shaped and piled with pink sheets and heart-shaped pillows. Lush white furs and blankets are draped across its foot. Silken drapes hang from the ceiling, creating an ethereal, fey-like look. There’s furniture, too – a velvety couch, a rich wood table, chairs, a wardrobe, and an armor stand. I spot a platformed structure, its posts wound with rope. A cat tree. It all smells like pine and citrus lingering over ocean air. It’s nice.

  And along the wall is a fully-stocked bar. I squint. There's a cask of 450-year-old dwarven whiskey. My breath leaves me.

  I turn again. A wide balcony sweeps over the rocky beach. Water stretches to the horizon, crashing against rocks, sending the smell of ocean spray and salt. I step onto the balcony. The familiar drone of ocean hitting a rocky shore intensifies. Somehow, though, it’s calming. Faint music twines through it, airy and whispering chords gliding together, an interlacing of the ley lines. It's like nostalgia for something I've never experienced. Warm light is all around me, seeping into my bones.

  Because rising low in the sky is the enormous, burning, flaring sun.

  “Thank you for spreading light, Chouncey of Seven Oaks,” a voice says. I whirl, looking for it. It seems just over my shoulder, but there’s no one there. It’s a soft voice – a handsome one, even. Like a friend talking.

  Except it’s not a friend. I turn back to the sun, the hair on the back of my neck prickling.

  “I didn’t do it for you,” I say. Here comes the lecture. “Keep your sermons. I don’t need them.”

  “No, you don’t,” it says. “You’ve been spreading light for years. Joy, music, magic, fellowship, life – I’ve seen it, even if no one else has.”

  “And you’re gonna give me a treat for it?”

  “Would you like one?”

  I don’t see a way out of this conversation. I’m not sure I can wake up. Am I even asleep? I shrug. “Sure, why not?”

  The air in front of me coalesces. It glows, forming into a tiny pink sun about the size of the end of my finger. I take it. It’s a sticker.

  Is this a joke? “Does it glow in the dark?”

  “Of course. We give them to the schoolchildren who come for field trips. I’ve found that positive reinforcement does wonders for my brand.”

  “They’re teaching religion in schools now?”

  “They have been. Maybe you should've paid better attention to yours.”

  I glance around, throwing up my arms. The fucking sun’s slinging zingers at me. “Thanks, I guess.”

  “No, thank you,” the voice says. “You’re free to do as you wish, always and forever. But I ask you to continue spreading light.”

  “Why?”

  If the sun could smile, it does. “Because I know you will.”

  Bright light splits the world, searing my vision. It’s almost too much. The sound of waves fades. It’s like being plunged through warm sunlight, down, back into myself.

  And I wake up.

  Light’s still blaring into my eyes. I crack them open and regret it. “Fuck me,” I mutter. I fumble and put a hand up. A beam of light is coming through the window, hitting me right in the face.

  I roll over. I’m in a yurt in Sunai again. We spent the rest of yesterday moving people, arriving late. Arriel led the way, her mace glowing like a small sun and making the dark wilderness look like the middle of the day. Weekes and I kept them moving and singing along. We didn’t come across any troubles, although taking one look at Arriel, I doubt anyone would try.

  Light’s still cascading in. It’s far too early. I burrow under the sheets. There’s still light. It’s coming from my hand. I open it, finding a small, pink sun glowing in the darkness.

  I fumble for my flask, sticking it on.

  Sulevi stirs next to me. Their arms thread around my chest, slightly damp. I emerge from under the sheets.

  “Shouncey,” Sulevi murmurs. I’ve never heard their accent before. When I asked where they’re from, they said the water plane. They’re the child of a marid – a water genie – who sent them here to be with other mortals. “Thank you for your help with the raiders. I have heard bad things about the place where they come from.”

  My chest wrenches. I scratch my ankle. “So have I,” I say quietly. “Do me a favor and take care of yourselves.”

  “We will. You will always have our hospitality. And I will watch for you to come back.” They squeeze me a bit, their hand brushing lower.

  I halfway turn over. “I'll take a bit more of your hospitality, if you're offering.”

  And they smile.

  They join their village an hour later, setting up along the lake, and I head to the common hall, grabbing breakfast. For an extra half a copper, they cook me a couple eggs instead of the pork they’re offering. It comes with rice, pickled vegetables, and beans. I sit cross-legged at the long, low table, sloshing some whiskey in my coffee, and start eating.

  Arriel soon emerges, joining me with her own breakfast.

  “You’re glowing this morning,” she says, sitting.

  I raise a brow. “Sulevi's got an absolutely wicked –”

  “That’s not what I meant.” She peers at me from across the table. “It looks like you got some sun yesterday, too.”

  I sigh, chewing. “I had a chat with your god last night, if that’s got anything to do with it.” Or I was a bit more fucked up than I thought.

  She pauses, spoon of soup halfway to her mouth. “You… you talked with Iros? You had a conversation with him?”

  “He gave me this, too,” I say, pointing to my flask on the table.

  She blinks. “He gave you a sticker?”

  “He said you give them to the kids. Is that not a normal thing?”

  “What? No.” She sets her food down. “I’ve been following him for years and never –” she cuts herself off.

  “Well,” I say, poking open my eggs and mixing them with rice. It's all a bit under-salted. I snap my fingers, fixing it. “Next you pray to him, tell him to fuck off.”

  She’s still looking at me like I’ve sprouted frills. “Is that why he…”

  I point at her, talking around my food. “No. I’m not converting – not even for you.”

  She stares, shaking her head like she’s trying to wake up. Then, she puts her face in her hands. “Gods help me.”

  “He said something about spreading light and wants me to keep doing it. I’ll keep spreading legs before I do some god’s bidding.”

  “Why would he be interested in you?” she asks, more to herself than to me. I’ll pretend that wasn’t underhanded.

  Her guess is better than mine. But he’s never helped me, so why should I help him? She doesn’t say anything more, her face scrunched in thought. She finally tucks into her food, eating in silence for a while.

  Finally, she talks again. “You knew them. Those people on the ship.”

  I splash a bit more whiskey into my coffee and down it. The words stick in my throat for a moment. “I knew Torm. He liked fucking with me.”

  “And that whip?”

  “He liked using it,” I say quietly.

  She reaches across, squeezing my forearm. “I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s hard to share that.”

  There’s a knot in my stomach. Or maybe it’s fluttering. Her blonde hair is freshly braided, giving the faintest whiff of verbena oil. She’s got a scattering of moles along her neck and chin, and perfect lips – equal-sized and with the slightest curl. I look away. I wish she weren’t so kind and understanding sometimes. It’d be harder to imagine what it’d be like to kiss her.

  “I'm sure he's sorry, too, in whichever layer’s got the misfortune of his company,” I say. I eat a bit more. “Does your wife ever tell you that you’re beautiful?”

  She smiles a little. It’s like the first crack of light at dawn. “Most days.”

  I can’t help watching. “What I'd give to fill in the gap on the others.”

  She examines me. “That’s kind of you.”

  “I’m not trying to be kind,” I say quietly, holding her eye.

  She suddenly busies herself with a few more bites of bread, dunking it in her thin soup. Chunks of soy and vegetables float in it. “I’m married, if that answers your question.”

  I shrug, taking another sip of my flask. “That means a lot of different things to a lot of different people.”

  She pauses. “To us, it means no,” she says. There’s a sad tilt to her smile. “But I’m flattered.”

  I laugh. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the fact that I meet an angel, and she’s not only a noblewoman, but she’s one of the few keeping her own company. Or maybe it’s remembering the five years I spent on that fucking island, knowing what I was missing. And I’m still missing it.

  “You’d best quit being so nice to me, then,” I say. I stack my dishes and stand. “I’m gonna go walk for a bit.”

  “Okay,” she says, her face soft. “Please come back. We’ll be here.”

  I hand my tray to the kitchens, then head outside town. I walk along the lake for a good long while, sipping my flask, finding a rock to sit on. Far out in the water, I spot the smudge of an island. I stare at it. A faint whiff of citrus and pine wood drifts on the wind. It smells familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe I should just leave. Why is it harder being around Arriel and Weekes than being alone?

  I glance at the sky – it’s midmorning. I watch gulls circle for a moment. I sling my mandolin around and strum it. I suck in a breath, my blood starting to hum. I play the incantation and tease a ley line. Pink covers my vision. I’m sucked through blackness into a familiar room.

  Irminric is at his desk.

  He glances up and stands, immediately reaching for the knife under the desk. He growls, narrowing his dark eyes. He backs down, releasing the knife. I glance around. It’s cloudy today on Jor. Waves crash. I glimpse the shipyard out the window, and slaves are working.

  “What do you want?” he spits.

  I step over and sit in the chair across from him. “I thought it might be rude, not stopping by and giving my condolences on Torm.”

  His scaled claw clenches around his pencil, snapping it. He glances at my belt, where the whip is coiled. “He was weak. And annoying.”

  “On that, we can both agree. Look at us, making friends after all this.”

  His long jaw squares.

  “Even so,” I continue. “He died how he lived – waving his cock around. I think he got caught deciding whether to run out there, pointing up, and never hear the end of it, or gamble on finishing the third leg first. It was embarrassing, I’m sure. But I’m disappointed. You’ve always been fond of the job being best done yourself.”

  “You want me to waste time on the likes of you?”

  “I know you will,” I smile. “A dragon knows when even the smallest item in his hoard is missing. You can’t stand watching me traipse around with this instrument of yours. And I’m going to kill you most spectacularly. I can’t wait for you to prove me wrong.”

  He grunts. “I don’t need to. I’ll just wait for you to drink yourself stupid and come collect you. Did you think your magic would hide it? You look even more pathetic than the last time I saw you.”

  I keep it together, tilting my chin up and cupping my knee. “You’re the one talking to thin air here. It’s not doing you any favors, people thinking you’re obsessed with me.”

  He leans in, gripping the edge of his desk. “I see through you – I always have. The humor, the insults, the deflection. You blame me for your problems. I’m not the one who made you drink. I’m not the one who brought you here. I take only weak slaves – the others aren’t worth it. You could’ve died like the rest. But you think you’re playing the hero because you escaped. You want to be somebody. I and everyone else see you for what you’ve always been – a fool.”

  I glance off, staying nonchalant. Deep in my real body, I’m unbearably hot. The sound of crashing waves is deafening. “Well, that’s harsh. But I know you’re grieving, down in that withered, black fucking heart of yours, so I'll forgive it. I’ll leave you to your work. And give my best to Catherine – she’s on my list, too.”

  He snarls. And then I end the spell.