The halls of Flamehold Virell were unusually quiet for the hour.

  Andrin’s steps fell soft against the ashstone floors, polished until they reflected the emberlight spilling from braziers along the walls. Between every archway hung blackened-sun banners, their soot-gold edging catching the light. Each one honored House Emberward and the Pyric Oath. Most hung still, but the further he walked, the more they stirred.

  The eastern spire always caught the breeze toward late evening.

  He adjusted the strap of the satchel at his side and passed a pair of senior Firesworn standing vigil outside the Shardvault. He gave them a short nod. They did not so much as twitch, gazes locked ahead.

  Past the Dawnroom and across the narrow Cinderwalk, the city of Caer Virell stretched beneath him in dark tiers and ember-lit avenues, smoke rising from a thousand forges. The wind pulled at his cloak, but the air also grew warmer with each step. Not from any flame, but from her presence.

  There were those who called it an exaggeration. A myth. But Andrin had served as adjutant to the Keeper of the Pyric Oath long enough to know better. They simply hadn’t seen her when she was serious.

  At the end of the walk stood a broad set of doors, their surface seared with the crest of the blackened sun. They stood shut and unguarded, because no one could guard a living legend.

  Andrin pushed them open and entered the Ember Courts.

  The air carried a faint tang of scorched myrrh, soaked into stone and steel. The outer chamber was circular, unadorned save for a low altar in its center piled with oathfires and broken spears. The walls bore charred reliefs of past Keepers—faces reduced to shadowed outlines, whether by age or intent.

  He crossed without slowing.

  Two junior aides stood outside the inner chambers, whispering until they caught sight of him. They straightened at once, fists to their chests in salute.

  The next hall was narrow, lined with heavy columns. Emberlight pulsed faintly from seams in the floor. No guards here either.

  He stopped before the innermost door. It was heavy but plain. A red-oak surface darkened by heat and years of wear. Warmth radiated noticeably from the other side. He knocked once, sharp and measured, then entered without waiting for an answer.

  The Flamebearer of the Covenant of Flame and Keeper of the Pyric Oath sat at a stone desk near the far arch, lit not by fire but by dusk filtering through the high slits in the spire wall. She wore her full armor, matte-black plates inscribed with faint sigilwork, a blackened sun seared across her chestplate. Her helm, sleek and close-fitted, was of the same dark metal, its cheek guards shaping the jaw and a narrow slit visor banding the eyes. From within, a muted crimson glow smoldered. Vermilion hair spilled from the rear of the helm and lay across one pauldron, vibrant against the blackened steel. The lower half of her face was bare, faint bronze-tan at the mouth and cheekbones, and a cloak of scorched weave hung from her shoulders.

  Elaria Valecrest did not look up. Her gaze moved across a stack of reports with the same precision she brought to a battlefield.

  Andrin came to attention inside the doorway. He let his gaze slip across the chamber as he waited. For nearly a century and a half, this had been the official office of the Keepers. The weight of that history hung everywhere: in the clean lines of the columns, in the carvings blackened by old fire, in the braziers still faintly smoking. It was very minimal compared to the seats of other powers, yet no less commanding.

  As commanding as the woman who held it now.

  His eyes paused on the long sword mounted above the rear dais. Its steel gleamed as if still hot from the forge, veins of trapped fire pulsing faintly in the fuller. He’d seen it a hundred times, and still it caught him off guard on occasion. A weapon almost as much myth as its bearer. A weapon whose presence bent all Bindings.

  Dawnbrand truly was a marvel of Resonance forging.

  Few arms in all the Covenant could be compared to it. Fewer still to the woman who wielded it. And those that did were wielded by equally terrifying hands.

  Finally, Elaria looked up. Her crimson eyes locked on him, and Resonance pressed across the chamber. The air thickened, heating. Andrin’s lungs tightened slightly. A lesser Kindled—anyone below the Seventh Binding—would have collapsed under the weight of it. Even he had to steel himself at times.

  She had not slept for seven days. By now, she was sustaining herself on nothing but will and pure Resonance, and that would inevitably have an effect on her surroundings. He would have written it up as a concern under anyone else. With her, he knew it would be ignored.

  “What is it?” she asked. The words were clipped, each syllable carrying a note of expectation.

  Andrin stepped closer, stopping a few paces short of the desk. “A dispatch arrived from Emberwatch an hour past. Skarnfield is holding, but barely. The Unraveled have breached two of the northern bulwarks on the ridge. Marshal Kael sent word he intends to burn the pass span before nightfall.”

  Elaria’s crimson gaze lingered, then dropped to the stack of reports. “We sent them four Flameforged Sentinels from Vel Dranhal.”

  “Yes, and it appears it wasn’t enough. The marshal claims seven Vacuul Sentinels weren’t accounted for in the earlier scoutings.”

  Her jaw tightened, though the rest of her face under the helmet remained unseen. “Are there any confirmed Shepherds?”

  Andrin gave a small nod. “The marshal’s description matches the prior encounters in Halveth and the Ridge Spines. The Ardent Circle’s sigilists agree. There is some organized force behind the Silence there. Or the Silence itself has manifested more deliberately.”

  A slow breath slipped past her lips. She leaned back, dusk light gleaming faint along her pauldrons, where blackened steel met veins of seared gold. “And the reinforcements from Darnelle?”

  “Delayed. Still bottled behind ice storms in the Thryne passes. Ardent whispers suggest it isn’t weather.”

  She was silent, save for a single tap of her finger against stone. Once. Twice.

  “On a related topic, the Circle has reported that their reserves are dwindling,” Andrin added, lowering his tone. “I spoke with Arch-Sigilist Rennaire. It’s reached the point where their rites are faltering as a consequence.”

  “What are they lacking?”

  He drew a folded slip from his satchel. “Volcant crystal. Ashbloom resin. Silverglass. Several more. Half of it drawn from Gloamsdeep, now inaccessible after the Unraveling. Much of the rest from the southwestern dominions—Thornequay, the Saltspires… Marrowfen.”

  She glanced at him. “…The Boneward Concord’s edict?”

  Andrin inclined his head. “It’s throttled much of the Resonance trade across the entire region. I broached it with Vanded Blazegrip when the Hollowstone Table assisted us in Gloamsdeep Hollow before Gloamhaven’s fall. Even he seemed uncertain. The Concord’s envoy to the Covenant has been anything but transparent about their reasoning.”

  Something faint kindled in her gaze, a restrained heat that could very well have melted stone. “…It’s the Ember Conclave’s responsibility to find a solution for the sake of the Covenant. See to it they press harder.” That was all she said, glancing toward the open slits in the spire wall behind her, dusk fading into ash-gray. “Anything else?”

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  “The marshal’s span is the most urgent. If we don’t respond, we’ll lose Emberwatch.”

  “I’m aware.”

  Elaria rose, crossing the chamber before coming to a stop before the rear dais. She lifted and rested a gauntleted hand on Dawnbrand’s hilt, and the air seemed to constrict further, temperature rising with a palpable thrum.

  She turned, eyes piercing him. “I assume you’ve already made Vorthalor ready.”

  Andrin smiled just briefly, then pressed a fist to his chest. “Yes, Keeper.”

  “Then I leave for Emberwatch. You will hold command in my absence. Have the Darnelle reports compiled by my return. And remind the forgemasters in Vel Dranhal their Sentinels are failing sooner than promised. That might stoke some cinders in their bellows.”

  “As you say.”

  The chamber’s Resonance surged violently, and Andrin felt as though he stood before an open kiln. Elaria’s eyes burned behind the slits of her helm as ember wings unfurled from her cloak, hissing ash across the floor. From the low skies outside, a magnificent roar answered.

  She strode to the opening, Dawnbrand blazing in her grip. A moment later, she was gone.

  Andrin remained by the desk, staring out into the deepening dusk. The heat ebbed from the chamber, but he knew it would soon rise again—on the battlefield, where Flamebearer Valecrest would turn dusk into fire.

  Gard felt like he was having an unusual day, though he couldn’t yet put a finger on why. There was that familiar edge—like a premonition. The kind he always got when the Chapter-Master was about to do something reckless. He didn’t know where the feeling came from, but he’d learned to recognize it. It wasn’t always right, but it was rarely nothing.

  Today, though, it didn’t quite fit. The Chapter-Master was still away, and from the last message would be gone another day or two. There had been no monster outbreaks, no new crises reported, nothing had exploded inside the Table halls.

  Well, except the writ duel incident. That still itched at him, but compared to the headaches that usually followed this feeling, it was tame. Almost mild.

  Which was why he found himself surprisingly relaxed, seated in the Vice-Master’s office within Hollowstone Table, spectacles perched on his nose as he reviewed contract reports and supply requisitions from the Tannin League. Beyond that, stacks of parchment covered the desk, including monster activity logs, bounty claims, and Eberhard’s records of coin owed and coin earned. Mundane work, but a welcome kind of mundane.

  And of course, that should have been warning enough. The great wheel of providence never failed to roll something unpleasant to his door the moment he grew comfortable.

  A knock came.

  Gard stilled. The hairs at the back of his neck prickled. He set down his spectacles, folding his hands atop the desk as he willed his face into calm neutrality.

  “Come in.”

  The door opened. Lucette, his aide, stepped inside.

  Of the non-combatants employed at the Table, she was one of only three, and by far the most formidable. The Chapter-Master refused an aide of his own, dumping the work onto Gard, which made Lucette the third-highest authority in practice. Even the rougher members knew better than to cross her.

  “Vice-Master,” she said, her tone even but carrying weight. “You have a visitor.”

  Gard arched a brow, keeping his expression steady despite the knot of unease forming in his gut. “A visitor? I assume there’s a reason you thought it best not to wait until the morning?”

  “It’s the newly initiated member. The one who dueled Han earlier today.”

  “…Miss Morgans?” His brows drew tight. “Is this about the payment for the damages?”

  “She said that was part of it. But also that it was important.”

  Gard exhaled through his nose. “…Let her in, then.”

  Lucette didn’t move.

  “Is there more?” he asked.

  “Should I let the girl in as well?”

  He blinked. “The girl is with her?”

  “She is.”

  Why did that somehow worsen the feeling gnawing at him?

  “Let them both in,” he said after a pause.

  Lucette nodded, disappearing briefly, then returned with two figures in tow. She ushered them into the office before exiting and closing the door.

  Gard studied them carefully. The mother and daughter were both striking, with their raven-black hair and a certain air to them. The girl drew the eye most. He supposed she was what some would call ‘cute,’ and her crimson-silver irises caught the light. Wane-born, he’d thought at first glance, but the crimson hinted at cinderborn blood as well. Presumably from the father. An incredibly rare mix from what he knew.

  He gestured toward the side of the room. A leather sofa sat near a low bone-carved table, shelves of tomes and rolled maps lined the walls, and a tall window of frosted glass let in what little moonlight peeked through the clouds. “Take a seat.”

  The woman glanced at the sofa, then down at her daughter, patting her back. The girl scampered forward, climbing onto the cushions with careful, almost deliberate movements. She peeked at Gard shyly before turning her head, eyes flickering about the office as if she wanted to study everything without drawing notice.

  Gard’s gaze lingered on her for a breath, then shifted to Vera Morgans. The woman hadn’t moved from the doorway.

  “…Is this really about payment?” he asked.

  “It isn’t,” she answered simply. Her hands reached up to pull back her hood, letting dark hair spill across her shoulders. She removed a pair of spectacles that vanished into the Vaultring Gard had suspected she owned.

  He narrowed his eyes slightly. He was growing more and more confident that she was, in fact, hiding her true identity. It made him wonder where this was heading.

  “I dealt with the Servitors in the Marrowvault,” Morgans said.

  “That’s good.” Gard leaned his cheek into his knuckles, watching her. “But reports of completed contracts go through Eberhard. Not to the Vice-Master of the Chapter.”

  “While I was down there, I took the opportunity to explore parts of the ossuary with Serel.”

  He began to nod, then paused. Had she brought her daughter into the Marrowvault? To complete a Chapter contract?

  “I found something I thought you should know about,” she continued.

  Gard was silent for several seconds. He flicked a glance at the girl—who was currently absorbed in a map of the southwestern dominions pinned to the wall—then back at her mother. “…And what was that?”

  Morgans seemed to weigh him with a steady look. “First, I’d like a promise.”

  “A promise?”

  “That you’ll keep my involvement quiet.”

  “Quiet about what?”

  “I’ll show you once I have your word.”

  Gard frowned. He did not like promises. Especially blind ones. His gut told him this would be the sort of thing he didn’t want to know. But there was something in her bearing that said he couldn’t dismiss it outright.

  “…Fine,” he said after a while. “Unless you’ve committed a crime beyond the usual sins our members indulge in, you have my word.”

  She gave him a strange look. “And what counts as usual?”

  “Brawls. Smuggling of some minor monster parts. The occasional excessive stabbing in a duel.” Gard flicked a hand with a sigh. “The Chapter-Master thinks it builds character. I’ve learned to work with what I have.”

  For a moment, he thought her expression softened into pity. He bit back the urge to point out that very few of those misdeeds had ever leveled a quarter of the dueling hall.

  After all, he couldn’t recall a single time any of their other members had offered to pay for the damages they had caused.

  Her face smoothed, and the seriousness returned.

  “Come,” she said, beckoning him.

  He blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “I can’t show you if you stay planted behind that desk.”

  He considered her and her words. Then, with a trepidation he would never have admitted aloud—a man of the Eighth Binding shouldn’t feel it at a simple request—he rose and stepped around the desk. They came to stand eye to eye. He searched her face and found nothing he could easily read.

  “Serel,” the woman said, turning to her daughter. “We’ll be gone for a few minutes. If anything happens, call Howlie. Okay?”

  The girl nodded. “Okay.”

  Gard opened his mouth. “What are you talking about? Where do you think we’re goi—?”

  The woman extended a hand. A weapon bloomed into it.

  Gard froze. His breath was gone. A sunken weight opened in his stomach, threatening to swallow him whole from within.

  It was a halberd. Its haft gleamed like marrow-forged ivory, the blade catching light in cold, oceanic blue.

  Chill rippled across his skin. For a moment, the world itself seemed to hesitate around the weapon. It demanded stillness.

  Its edge shimmered against the fabric of reality itself as it fell. With silent defiance, the air split apart, runes of Hollow flickering and writhing like grasping fingers to widen the breach.

  Gard barely registered the hand pressing against his back before it shoved him through. Panic—raw, untempered panic—surged through him, something he hadn’t felt in years. By the time he reacted, he was standing on rough stone in a chamber of dim darkness, the air sharp and taut with Resonance.

  “I assume you’ve heard of the Pale Reconciliation,” came her voice, much colder now. Unsettling.

  Gard turned, ready to meet Vera Morgans. And he did—but not.

  It was the same woman, but very much changed. The same features, dimly lit, yet her entire presence had shifted. A Resonance poured off her in waves, silver eyes burning with stillness that promised eternal silence. It pressed on him, heavy and suffocating, as if the earth beneath considered erasing him from memory.

  The sound of his heel scraping stone was deafening in the hush. He realized with a start that he had stepped back. His mouth went dry. He’d forced himself to meet her gaze and held it for a moment too long.

  He hadn’t recognized it. He had thought her Ninth Binding, possibly Tenth. But he hadn’t even thought to consider she was above that. That she was Rekindled. Cycle-Forged. Suppressing her Resonance by so many degrees it had slipped far, far past him.

  A faint frown touched her face as she studied him. “What are you…?”

  Her words trailed. Something shifted in her expression. And suddenly, the crushing silence relented. Air rushed back into Gard’s lungs.

  “Sorry,” she said, quieter, lowering her weapon’s edge to the stone. “I didn’t realize. I didn’t mean to put that on you.”

  Gard stared, struggling to gather himself beneath her gaze. He drew in a long, unsteady breath—amazed at how free it felt—before wiping sweat from his brow. He forced his spine straight, fingers unclenching by will alone.

  He hadn’t felt this small since his first campaign, standing with the Covenant’s forces against the horrors of the First Warden outside the Ember Throne.

  “Miss Morgans…” he began, having to stop to swallow due to his dry mouth. “Who exactly are you?”