Ember walked through the cathedral again. The bodies weren’t frozen this time; they were moving, reaching for him with blackened fingers. Michael Chen’s face appeared on every corpse.

  “You took my place,” they whispered in unison. “It should have been you.”

  He tried to run, but his legs wouldn’t move. The cold seeped into his bones. Behind him, children’s screams echoed, the ones from the explosion.

  “Mommy!” they cried. “Make it stop!”

  Then he was falling—falling through darkness—and at the bottom waited the shell: empty, waiting, hungry. Its cold shell opened, trapping him in its depths. Jeremiah's eye burned into him. Ember was unable to move as whispers moved around.

  He jolted awake, screaming.

  His dreams were filled with nightmares from the artificial dungeon and the dead, frozen people of the bottom cathedral. Every night, the screams from the cathedral tormented his dreams, and the frozen people walked on the edges of his vision. He was drenched in a cold sweat, and his heart pounded as he climbed out of his tent, breathing in the fresh air.

  He rubbed his head. Man, those nightmares never go away. Will I ever be rid of them? I can’t even get a good night’s sleep anymore.

  He paced around the camp. Chris should have been resting in his own tent. To busy himself, Ember walked over to the coals of the dying fire and brought the blaze back, grabbing some wood from the cart and stoking the flame.

  As he sat there, his eyes went to the sword, the one he had pulled at the start of this whole fiasco, and he felt an indescribable pull toward it. He picked it up and drew it from its sheath, almost mesmerized by the golden clouds that swirled up the center of the dark gray blade.

  With a huff, he sat by the campfire and traced the swirling clouds. A fierce protectiveness washed over him. He wasn’t exactly sure why, but it just felt wrong to be separated from the weapon. He wanted to use it, even though he knew he shouldn’t. It was a deep-seated want. Almost like a need. It sank deep into his mind, fingers twitching.

  But as he thought about filling his cup, almost letting the temptation roll over him, Chris walked out and sat across from him.

  “That’s ichor addiction,” Chris said.

  “Ichor addiction?” Ember looked up at him, not surprised he was awake. His hand rested on the hilt, blade glinting in the firelight.

  Chris rested his arms on his knees as he leaned closer to the fire. “I haven’t talked about this yet, but weapons of that caliber have a different type of ichor. A different quality. Most weapons that are low-tiered don’t have amazing ichor quality. But something like that?” He shook his head. “It’d be almost the highest quality you could find. And your body craves it. You’ve already used it once, and even though it was just a tiny flash, it was enough for your body to want to use that high-quality ichor. And considering how you’ve been using a rare weapon for a while, it would make sense. You’re going through withdrawals.”

  “You make it sound like it’s a drug.”

  Chris sighed, holding his hands up to the fire. “It is, in a way. Ichor addiction is a relatively rare occurrence because most people never get their hands on a weapon of that level. But usually, when you do, it’s hard to stay away from it.”

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  “I’ve seen it happen before,” Chris said quietly, staring into the flames. “Back in the civilized world, there was a man who got his hands on a legendary spear. He was nobody before. A common guard. But that spear...” Chris frowned, “Within days, he was one of the strongest warriors in the region. Within a month, he couldn’t go a day without using it. Started taking unnecessary fights just to feel that rush. Overflow became his normal state. I watched him get weaker and weaker when he wasn’t in overflow, the result of burning through your life force.”

  He looked at Ember with unusual intensity. “They found him dead in an alley, the spear clutched to his chest like a lover. He was thirty-two. He had the spear for three months.”

  Ember swallowed hard. “And you think I’ll…”

  “I think that sword is stronger than his spear was. And you’ve already had a taste.” Chris’s expression was grave. “I’m not saying this to scare you. I’m saying it because you need to understand what you’re fighting against. It’s not just about control—it’s about survival. Remember what I said: don’t use that weapon. It’s too strong. It’ll flood your system so fast, you won’t even be able to stop the overflow. If you have to use it, be prepared to use your life force. There won’t be another option.”

  Ember looked at the sword more reluctantly. “You keep bringing up rarities. What do you mean by that?”

  Chris sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t really want to go over it. It would be better if you were to see a seer about it instead of me describing it to you. I don’t know the details entirely myself. But what I do know is that the higher the quality of a weapon, the better the ichor, and the stronger the weapon’s abilities and your own will become.

  “As for rarities and how weapons work…” He shook his head. “That’s not for me to talk about. It’d be better if you talked to an expert about it.”

  Ember almost scoffed. “So the man who knows everything finally admits to not knowing something.”

  Chris didn’t take offense to the jab. He just shrugged. “Well, I do want to be a king, so I have to know as much as I can. But there are some things even I don’t know a lot about—nor do I really want to. Weapon rarities are something that I know of, but for someone like you, it’s better if you go see the people who actually diagnose what weapons are and their rarity. There should be a seer at the sub-city we’re going to.”

  Ember looked down at his sword again, and then reluctantly sheathed it.

  “How much farther to the sub-city?” Ember asked, still staring at the sword.

  “Three, maybe four days if we don’t run into anything else.” Chris prodded the fire with a stick. “Depends on how fast my arm heals.”

  “And if we do run into something?”

  Chris was quiet for a moment. “Then you’ll have to fight. And you’ll have to do it without me being able to use my shield properly.”

  The weight of that settled over them. Ember set the sword down carefully. “I’m not ready,” he said.

  “No,” Chris agreed. “You’re not. But you’re better than you were a week ago. That has to be enough.”

  “And if it’s not?”

  Chris met his eyes across the fire. “Then we improvise. Or we die. That’s the Frontier.”

  Ember almost laughed. “You’re terrible at pep talks.”

  “I’m not here to coddle you,” Chris said, but there was no heat in it. “You want me to lie and say everything will be fine? You’ve already seen what happens when I’m overconfident.” He flexed his injured arm slightly, then winced. “We’re both learning. Difference is, I’m running out of chances to make mistakes.”

  Chris yawned. “I suggest you get as much rest as you can. I know it’s hard dealing with everything you’ve gone through so far, but you’re gonna have to get used to it. This is your life now.” He stood. “I’m going to bed.”

  Ember stared into the coals, the fire crackling. “This is my life now,” he muttered to himself. “I imagine a lot of people would be thrilled to be in the position I’m in.”

  After Chris returned to his tent, Ember sat alone with the dying fire for another hour. He was putting off sleep, and he knew it. Every time he closed his eyes, the images waited: frozen faces, screaming children, blood pooling around his feet.

  The look Jeremiah gave him still made him shudder. It was a look he thought was always exaggerated. Pure and total hate. Enough to burn a hole in his soul. And it was directed at him. Ember hoped he wouldn’t have to watch his back for the rest of his life.

  Eventually, he forced himself into the tent, doing his best to fall asleep, one filled with the horrors of his actions.