Lysander Gerrot paced restlessly in the council chamber.

  He wasn’t alone, of course. His rival, his subjects, every figure of any real standing in Elliven, were gathered in the grand hall. Most were nobles, the leaders of the various houses that had risen within Elliven since its founding. One of the few who wasn’t was the first to break the silence surrounding Lysander’s stride.

  “We must assume something’s changed in the Waste for the abomination to spawn.”

  The speaker was Lady Tillibel, Knight-Triumphant of the Emerald Order. Lysander had to smooth a snarl from his face. Though in the past she had been a beauty and a force, the old warhorse was now nothing more than a failure. An Expert who had never made it to Master, now so aged that she rarely took to the field herself anymore. Lysander was still sure her assignment to Elliven had been a calculated insult, but that didn’t change her title or her importance.

  She may not have been noble, or in the running for the ducal throne, but she was one of the most respected individuals in the city thanks to the foolish commonborn sentinels, who still worshiped her for her past achievements. What difference did her role in the Painlord conflict make now?

  “Not necessarily,” Lysander countered, refusing to cede ground to the supposedly neutral knight. “We do not know the nature of the abomination–we have the loss of a single cadre and the account of a single girl–and even she’s not sure what it was she saw.”

  “It was an outsider capable of killing my son and his entire team, Gerrot,” Merrick Argias shouted. He lumbered to his feet, his anger obvious. “The Arboreal Wastes rarely produce even a moderate monster, yet an experienced cadre of Initiates was killed before they could fight or flee. Clearly, something has changed!”

  Lysander glared at Merrick, not bothering to disguise his distaste the way he had for Tillibel. The mountainous northerner, a former captain in the Terasian Legion, did not comport himself the way the high-blood should. His hair and beard alike were grown long and curly, and even in the comfort of the council chamber, the man held himself rigidly, as if ready to demonstrate the strength that had made him Lysander’s closest rival for the ducal throne.

  “Supposedly, perhaps,” Arthur Dennan cut in. Lysander smirked to himself. That whimpering goblin had continued to prove himself a capable tool since he had been… chastised. “This unseen abomination, the claim of null magic, the lone survivor’s common blood… if you ask me, there’s a much simpler explanation. Your son fell victim to a gnoll ambush of some kind, he helped his consort escape, and she came up with this fanciful tale to make his death more meaningful.”

  Merrick rolled to feet, turning on Arthur, menace obvious on his face.

  The difference between the Expert soldier and the slender patriarch of House Dennan couldn’t have been more stark, but Arthur didn’t move from his casual lounging.

  “Enough, Merrick!” Lysander snapped. “Your anger benefits no one!”

  Now the Tersian turned on Lysander. His meaty paws made impotent grasping gestures at his sides, and Lysander knew that his rival was itching to conjure his earthen weaponry. Lysander’s own hand drifted down to the rapier at his side, and he met the veteran soldier’s glare with a challenging look of his own.

  “That will be enough from all three of you!” Tillibel’s interruption came as if Lysander had scripted it.

  He arched an eyebrow, an expression of perfectly calculated insolence, but Merrick had finally learned his lesson and got his temper under control, turning away to grumble to himself.

  A pity. The man was a capable enough sentinel, but he simply wasn’t up to playing the political game at the same level as Lysander. In Terast, or the Sisters, that sort of attitude might’ve carried him far, but this was Elliven. Merrick’s physical strength didn’t matter, not here. Lysander never needed to equal him, not so long as he controlled the Court.

  “I appreciate the intervention, Lady Emerald.”

  Tillibel’s narrowed gaze made clear that she saw through his games. That didn’t matter either. The Knight-Triumphant had made very clear that she was keeping herself politically neutral, willing to work with the Court as it stood as well as whoever ended up earning the ducal throne in the future.

  Not that Lysander would claim the title any time soon. As things currently stood, Lysander held as much power from his position in the High Court as any Duke, with none of the obligations that the title would bring with it. Perhaps, once he had fully consolidated his power, it would be worth claiming that role, but only once Allid was ready to take his seat as head of the house. By then Tillibel would certainly be retired, and it would be easy enough to ensure Merrick had fallen from grace…

  “Fine then. Tell us, Lady Emerald,” Lysander asked the leader of Elliven’s knights, “how goes the hunt for this new threat?”

  Tillibel’s face puckered as if she had taken a bite from a lemon. The expression seemed to come naturally to the aged woman. “Poorly, as you well know. The abomination–”

  “The alleged threat,” Lysander corrected her smoothly. “There is still no evidence of Sentinel Callianne’s claims.”

  A twitch she barely suppressed. Another victory. “The threat seems to have an ability to navigate the distortion trails that our gifted lack. Yet another reason I believe the King should be notified, so that appropriate resources can be dedicated-”

  Lysander’s smooth baritone effortlessly overrode the old woman’s protests. “Lady Emerald, as you know, the Court has decided that until the true nature of the claims are understood, there is no need to bring in outside help nor to spread unnecessary alarm.”

  “And as you know, I disagree!”

  Lysander hoped his smirk was as infuriating as he could make it. “I understand that, however-”

  Another voice interrupted him, rolling over his own cultured tones as easily as he had taken dominance of the conversation from Tillibel. “In fact, I happen to agree with the Knight-Triumphant. As does His Majesty.”

  Lysander spun on the voice, looking for whoever had dared to speak over him in his Court. The man in question was unfamiliar, a tall and ragged sentinel with bright blue eyes. He was reclined back in a seat, his mud-caked boots propped up on the broad council table. Who was he? How long had he been here? How had he gotten in? Why had no one noticed him?

  Lysander was not used to being caught speechless, but something about this stranger rattled him. He only managed one of his many questions, in a tone far more indignant than he would’ve preferred. “And who, exactly, are you?”

  The man smiled. “Sir Toren Cifel, Knight-Gallant of the Argent Order.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  #

  Adeline strode into Farris’s training room without bothering to knock. Inside, the warden was hard at work, laid back on a bench and slowly, steadily, lifting a massive bar weighted on both ends with iron rings. She had discarded her tunic, leaving her clad waist-up only in a tight chest wrap and leaving the tense, well-defined muscles of her shoulders and abs bare. Her brand, an open-hand engraved with a snowflake and surrounded by a winding pattern of thorny vines, originated on her right shoulder but spread across her chest and collarbone.

  Adeline paused, closing the door behind her and resting against it, and took a moment to marvel at the warden’s powerful build. Her transition had done little to soften her musculature despite the lunar connotation it carried, something Farris had assured Adeline was purposeful. Looking at her corded muscles now, sheened with sweat, Adeline couldn’t help but agree with the decision.

  Farris didn’t acknowledge Adeline’s presence for upwards of ten minutes, until she had finished a set of lifts long enough to demonstrate the effectiveness of her well-cultivated stamina and strength attributes.

  Finally, with a grunt of effort, the warden threw the weight bar aside and sat up, taking a moment to stretch. She didn’t even look at Adeline when she asked, “Did you come to see me for a reason? Or are you just here to leer?”

  The question had a little heat behind it, a subtle invitation only someone who had been intimate with the warden could notice. Tempted as she was, Adeline shook her head.

  “The leering was just a side benefit. I got orders, straight from the Knight-Radiant in Arsilet.” Adeline held up a letter, the folded parchment slipped between two of her fingers.

  “Yeah?” Farris grabbed a rag from one side of the bench, using it to mop up some of the sweat she had accumulated. “I thought you silver knights were the wandering type. Going where you will, as you please, righting wrongs and all that. Didn’t think you had orders.”

  “It’s not common,” Adeline acknowledged. “The last time I got orders was when the Allvany wardens needed help facing down those cyclopes a few years back.”

  Farris grunted. “The fury hag?”

  When the pair returned to Correntry, just a week before, the first thing they had done was seek out a sentinel scholar, who had identified a single type of hag capable of utilizing wild magic. So-called fury hags were rare, as they seemed to need to steal their power from a true Feral World outsider, like a troll.

  “Nope. They’re sending someone else for that.”

  “Oh? Taking you off the job?”

  “Not quite.” Adeline finally pushed off the door to cross the training room. She offered the letter to Farris before continuing to the cool pitcher of water sitting on a table to the side of the room.

  As Adeline poured the water, giving Farris the chance to read the letter, her attention wandered to the wide, open window set into the far wall of the room. A small breeze slipped through, and Adeline found herself smiling.

  “Everbright, huh?”

  Adeline returned to the weight bench, offering Farris a glass of water. “Yep. Kenton Everbright, Knight-Errant, being sent down with his whole cadre from the Lunar Wastes. And he’s not the only one coming down from Arsilet.”

  At Adeline’s words, Farris turned back to the letter, her brows quickly climbing towards her head. “A cadre being sent to Emeston… a full contingent of alchemists from the Apothic Order to Valley Hearth… and the Mendicant themself!”

  “By royal decree,” Adeline pointed out.

  “So the King finally took notice of everything going on down here… Where does that leave us?”

  Adeline took the letter back from her friend. “Doing just what we wanted to in the first place. I’ve been asked to head down to Jellis to catch up with our wayward proteges. I want you to come with me.”

  “I’m not a knight,” Farris reminded her. “I’ll have to check with the office.”

  “They’ll support it,” Adeline reassured her. “The letter calls you out by name.”

  “The Knight-Radiant of the Argent Order knows my name?”

  “I’ve encountered very few things my commander doesn’t know about,” Adeline observed dryly. “Best of all, the official directive means I can tap into the Argent Order’s coffers. We’ll get a rune carriage, make our way down fast.”

  Farris all but jumped to her feet, pausing only to grab her tunic. “When do you want to go, then?”

  “As soon as you’re ready. You go to the office and get the go ahead, I’ll head over to the caravansery. Meet me there and we’ll go.”

  Farris looked at her, obviously surprised. “Really? That soon?”

  Adeline lifted the letter again. “You weren’t the only one named in this letter, Farris. If the Knight-Radiant knows who our students are, where they are, what they’re doing, and thinks they need help…”

  “Things can’t be going well for them.”

  “Exactly.”

  Farris was out the door within moments.

  Adeline paused to finish the clear, cool water in her glass. Her gaze drifted back to the window even as a small breeze tugged on her long, golden hair.

  “Please be okay, Oli,” she pleaded, her whisper carried away on the wind.

  #

  Aton rode, uncomfortably, in the back of a bouncing, jostling wagon, and wondered if he did the right thing.

  For Ariana Aliavnes, born in the Realm’s capital of Arsilet, her pure blood should’ve meant that any door she would have wanted would be open for her. While centuries of courage in the Wastes had expanded the noble class far beyond the goldbloods who founded Arsilet, blood still meant more than it should’ve in the Golden Bastion.

  But when Ariana had decided she was he, and tried to take the name Aton, his family had responded… poorly. No blemish could be allowed to tarnish the resplendent golden bloodlines, and when he had stood by his new identity, Aton had been lucky to make it out of Arsilet alive.

  His skills as a swordsman, bred and trained into him since he could hold a weapon, had served him well on the road, and he had drifted from one village to another, unafraid to take what he wanted from those unable to defend themselves against the skill of a goldblooded exile. The Outlaw, the archetype that catered to those who prized their own welfare first and foremost, had quickly beckoned to Aton, and he had found the gift of the bandit to be a refreshingly blunt accompaniment to his gift of the fencer, won before he had fled Ariana’s family.

  Once he found Egin’s band haunting the Flax Road, it had been easy enough to win his way up the ranks and become a leader in the little bandit clan, second only to the impossible animalistic powers of Egin himself.

  But still, much of being a bandit had rubbed Aton the wrong way. Not least of all due to his forced subservience to both Egin and the distant, mysterious benefactors he claimed to work for. Taking orders came easily to no goldblood.

  More than that, however, Aton had been troubled by the questions Egin refused to answer. Why were they being paid to attack weak merchant caravans? How did they control the immaterial undead Egin’s enigmatic patron had supplied? How was the bandit chief able to use two totem gifts, giving him both avian and feline abilities, when that was a well-known impossibility? Who were Xythen, and Kellen, and Alamar, the men Egin so often exchanged letters with?

  Aton had already decided to take his leave of the band when he had joined in the attack on Hugo’s caravan, expecting to take one last haul before he fled for brighter pastures, only to be thoroughly defeated. For the first time since he had left Arsilet, Aton found his much-vaunted skills insufficient to defeat his enemy, overwhelmed in short order by a blur of skinny limbs and blue hair and a blade of black glass.

  In the aftermath, once the clan had been repelled and that cowardly bastard Egin had fled, Aton had found himself forced to talk with another of the battle-gifted, and was shocked to have fought another noble in exile–another eclipsed cast out by their family. In the end, it was as much that shocking connection as his anger at being abandoned and his earlier misgivings that had caused Aton to turn on Egin’s band, telling the two young gifted what they needed to know to find the clan before they could flee and get reinforcements from one of those other bands Egin was in contact with.

  It hadn’t been enough to earn clemency, though. Despite his efforts to help them, the scrawny blue-haired celestial and the former noble had left Aton bound and thrown in a wagon heading for the nearby town of Jellis, watched by yet another teenager who was more concerned for her injured friend than her prisoner’s comfort.

  Not that her distraction had given Aton the chance to flee. Not yet.

  But, as the exiled noble watched out the back of the wagon, catching sight for the third time that day of movement in the thick underbrush to the wagon’s side, he felt it was, just maybe, possible that his luck was turning around.

  He just had to be ready to take his chance when it came.

  One final reminder: Starting next week, Wanderborn will be dropping to a Monday/Friday release schedule to give me time to work on my next book. More news to follow soon!