Sorina:

  When I gain some semblance of cognizance, I am still lying up against the cage. Except, the warlock is no longer kneeling in front of me. Rather, his dark gaze hounds after the duke, who I’m almost starting to feel bad for.

  “You never mentioned the Elk,” the warlock says, fingers snapping out to Rothbore’s face. The big man stumbles back, hands covering his eyes.

  How much did I tell the man? My mind is fuzzy. Memories of the past hour are a blur. Somehow, he must’ve extracted my tale of Raiten fighting Baroth.

  “I did not know you would be interested—”

  “Of course I am interested, you dull-witted buffoon. Where is it?”

  “Your—your—your—”

  The warlock sighs and pulls his hand away. “If you do not form a complete sentence in the next thirty seconds, Rothbore, I will sow your lips together and eat your eyes.”

  The threat is casual. Plain, yet assured.

  Rothbore gulps and gathers himself. Then, the duke actually manages to be brave. I suppose even a broken clock is right twice a day.

  “Your previous master tried to revive it, but he failed.”

  “Hmmm. Interesting. But I am not my predecessor—he’s more attuned to spirit necromancy. This is Eldritch. Much different. I am sure he did some of the work for me though.”

  The warlock inclines his head towards me now. “Well, princess, I suppose our time is at an end. I apologize for my conduct, but I'm in a bit of a rush. Now then, it's time we give you a proper finale, don’t you think?”

  …

  Raiten:

  The blue-violet hue of the sky is shifting to a warmer orange and yellow. The first rays of sunlight now shear over the horizon. The time for battle is almost upon us.

  Kiren and I talk about stupid things. Things that don’t matter. Our favorite styles, books, fruits—on that we disagree. He’s a big fan of spirit-fertilized apples. Says that they have a unique tangy taste to them. I’m simpler: I like bananas.

  “What about you Umbrahorn?” Kiren asks. The shark has been unusually quiet for a bit now. “What do you like to eat? I’m assuming it's not fruit, so what’s your favorite fish—”

  “Can I apologize to you both about something?”

  I shift. “You? Apologize?”

  “Don’t be an ass Raiten, I’m being serious.”

  “Right. Sorry—go ahead.”

  The shark moves around the snuffed flame, his wooden body roving through the earth with a practiced ease.

  “Kiren, since you probably don’t know this, I used to have more parts than just this. I was once a spirit of many elements.”

  Kiren’s eyes widen. “That’s rare.”

  “It made me the best predator in the land. I could eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted to. Except once. And only once.” The shark turns his black gaze to the young mancer now. “You asked me, when we played Liar’s Dice, what the hardest opponent I ever faced was?”

  Oh. Even Kiren looks a bit frazzled. “Umbrahorn you don’t have to—”

  “No, no. We’re brothers now, aren’t we? We should tell each other things.”

  I’m surprised he’s willing to do this. I don’t think he would’ve been a few weeks ago. But then again, none of us are the same. Besides maybe Kiren.

  “I was prowling the woods in the Western region of the Fickle Plains. And, during my hunt, I spotted a large elk. It looked so juicy and big that I just had to have it. But when I attacked—” he looks at me now. “It grew wings. An angel and devil wing. Its eyes multiplied. The elk’s hooves grew talons.”

  “And it could use soulfire…” I finish for him, coming to the slow realization myself.

  Kiren looks between us, understanding dawning on his face. “That thing that Raiten killed? The one we saw at the base?”

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  “I don’t know if it's the same one, but I haven’t seen any other creature like it. Back then the beast was wild. Mindless. Intent on killing anything that got in its way.” The shark shudders at the memory. “It beat me within an inch of my life. I barely got away from it.”

  I stay silent, pondering his words. He waits for my response in particular though, mouth agape, as if anticipating me to rip him apart.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” is all I can ask.

  “I’m telling you now. And also because—because it was dealt with. You killed him. Also… he beat me. Beat me when I was great. When I had all my other parts. So—there’s no excuse for my loss.”

  Such a wrong way to think about it. But I understand Umbrahorn, in a way. I understand that feeling of shame and fear.

  I sigh. “Don’t worry about it, Umbrahorn. Like you said, it's dealt with.”

  “Yes!” Kiren chimes in. “And besides, you say he beat you while you were great? I think you’re pretty great now, Umbrahorn. I mean, you and Saegor beat the Lady—Raiten and I didn’t stand a chance against her. You don’t need all those other parts to be… well, you.”

  Strange enough, some of the brown of Umbrahorn’s wood turns a slight shade of groove-laden redwood. I didn’t even know that was possible.

  “Thanks,” the shark mutters. “But please, don’t mention this to anyone else.”

  “Of course,” I promise, trying to hold back my chuckle. Why is he so worried about that? There’s no one else to mention it to.

  Besides, what does it matter?

  The Elk is dead.

  …

  Sorina:

  They wheel the rotting corpse of the Elk to the center of the fortress grounds. All soldiers and guards gather ‘round as the warlock paces about the Elk’s body. Meanwhile, Duke Rothbore sees to us: the captured.

  A guard roughly pushes me to my knees, hands tied behind my back. They line Riddeck next to me.

  Then Yasna, to my heartache.

  “I’m sorry princess,” Riddeck says. He is wheezing. His face is bloody and ruined—marked by purple bruising. They have stripped him of his shirt, revealing savage whip wounds at the back. “I tried to resist but—”

  “It’s fine, Riddeck. This much is my fault,” I tell him.

  “Don’t say that princess—never say that,” Yasna says beyond Riddeck’s shoulder. At least they didn’t beat her, though she looks weary. “You don’t deserve—”

  “SILENCE!” Rothbore sputters. His voice echoes across the fortress and a few crows flutter away from the trees, their black feathers shedding upon us like dark snowfall. Rather than leave, however, they merely perch upon the crenels of the watchtower—waiting to feast upon the fetid carrion we are to become. I hope they choke on my flesh.

  The warlock begins poking at the ends of the Elk and nodding to himself, as if pleased.

  Meanwhile, the duke clears his throat.

  “These three traitors of Catolica conspired to have me removed from my position. They conspired to raid our stores with bandits. They conspired to halt Catolica’s march against Sorayvlad.”

  I’m going to die.

  I’m going to die in the dirt, like this?

  What a way to go.

  The soldiers start murmuring to themselves. Some dissent can be heard. But most are just watching.

  I spot Pamela on the ramparts, coming down the stairway now. The queen looks like she’s been up all night—eyes cracked with red lines that web like shattered glass.

  “But let it be known that our laws are equal and virtuous. We do not shield nobility from punishment—especially, when the crimes are so severe.”

  Pamela approaches Rothbore, and for a brief moment, I think she might stop him. Somehow, someway, she might save us.

  But she passes him and strides towards me, gazing upon my kneeling form.

  There’s a struggle in her face. A pleading in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Sorina,” she whispers. “But I must abide. I—” Her voice breaks. Wetness threatens her eyes. “I have a family too.”

  I nod. All the anger that might’ve been placed for her now drains away—she didn’t betray me. At least, not on purpose.

  These people who have their talons in her—they are the real enemy.

  This warlock is the enemy—the enemy who now starts chanting in front of the Elk, his eyes rolling to a pale, deathly white.

  “Can you make it quick?”

  She’s about to reply, but Rothbore’s climax cuts her off.

  “The punishment shall be execution. Here and now, watch the laws of our nation be upheld. We will not retreat. We will not surrender. We are Catolica! And we shall rise above our enemies. Rise above our sins. Rise above—”

  There comes a creaking.

  A sound of overlapping whispers that penetrates the ear and ravages the mind.

  All eyes, including Rothbore’s, turn away from us.

  To watch the ritual.

  Because now, the Elk’s body is levitating, a ring of shadow and flame coalescing around its form. And the warlock’s chanting gets louder and rhythmic and fervent and harsh syllables trill on his tongue and the whispers travel around our heads, our ears, becoming attuned to the wind, conquering the air, leeching on our sanity like ticks that squeeze their mandibles and suck suck suck till their disease is proliferating within and their bodies are fat, engorged and swelling blood and and and—

  And I watch—watch as the thing that Raiten labored so desperately to kill…

  Opens its eyes once more.

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