It’s halfway to noon when I crack an eye. I’ve never been so wearied as when Arriel brought us back to the estate. I barely managed to stumble upstairs. Weekes helped me into a bath, and I don’t remember much beyond that.

  I find my flask next to my pillow and take a long swig. Yesterday’s like a terrifying dream, but it’s as real as ever. What did I even do? That kind of magic seemed impossible five years ago – the kind found only in legends and prone to going horribly wrong. But I shunted him into a different plane through sheer manifestation, somehow fabricating extraordinary magic. How many other people in the world can do that? A handful? If only Irminric knew what he was sitting on all that time. What would he think if he knew I was taking his precious Isles, setting all his slaves free? I smile.

  And then my throat clenches. It’s my first morning waking up in a world without Irminric in it.

  I close my eyes. Deep down, black waters still simmer in my head. It still seems as bottomless as ever. Maybe it was too much to hope it’d go away. His last parting gift for me – a lifetime of remembering him.

  Do I want to be the Warchief of the Byrian Isles? Absolutely not. But I have to be. I can’t walk away from those slaves and leave the Isles to do it again. I have to clean up the mess I made. I take another drink.

  I glance at the sunlight cascading in. It’s dinner time back on Jor. I flick out my arcane hand and retrieve my mandolin. I begin the incantation, strumming chords and tracing a ley line, and pink-laced blackness falls over me.

  I’m in the long hall, sitting in the center chair of the high table. Raiders tear at piss-meager offerings. The biggest tragedy in all this is that one of them had to help cook.

  The problem is that Erson’s right there, too.

  “Walstad. Get your cockled ass out of my chair,” I snap.

  He shoots to his feet, scrambling away. The chair screeches back. Everyone turns to look. It’s dead silent. I remain hovering over the floor, feet propped on the table. Mouth full of food, he sets the chair back. I adjust the illusion. He takes the sad little chair next to it, moving his plate over.

  “Sorry. I didn’t know when you’d be coming back.”

  Conversation resumes. It’s good to know I can keep things in order by leaving them guessing when I’ll pop by, in person or not. I glance around. I’ve seen this hall cheerier after a funeral. “How’s progress on freeing the slaves?”

  He takes a bite of pork. It looks dry as basilisk leather. It’s next to a raw onion and a half-cooked potato. “I had to whoop some raiders, but it’s done. Nobody’s left who didn’t want to stay.”

  Why any slave would want to stay, I’m not sure. But at least they’ve got a choice. Now, the real work begins. “Good. I’ll be gone for a bit. I left a shell for you in the vault – use it to contact me. I’m putting you in charge in the meantime.”

  He pauses eating. “You’re leaving?”

  I’ve gotta make sure the slaves are settling in alright. I’m not gonna send them out to be fodder for anyone looking to take advantage of desperate people. Even so, the last fucking thing in the world I want to do is stay on this godsforsaken island, whether it’s mine or not. Maybe I can shunt the whole thing into the water plane. I look at him hard. “I can come back anytime – don’t make me. You’ve got five years of mistreatment working against you. Don’t fuck this up, Walstad.”

  He looks me over, then nods. He sets his food down and raises his hands. “Alright. You’re right. We don’t need slaves. We have plenty of our own people to put to work and keep them under control –”

  “I hate the direction you’re taking this.”

  He stops talking.

  I continue. “As for getting work done, start by doubling whatever piss-poor wages Irminric was paying. I’d better not find anything that looks like slavery if I squint hard enough.”

  “It’ll happen. But if I might make a suggestion?”

  He pauses. I gesture him on.

  He glances around, then lowers his voice. “The Guild won’t like this. I’m not saying we should go back to what we were doing. But they talk in money and investments, and you’re uprooting something valuable to them. They want those ships, and they’re gonna find a way to get them. Keep an eye on the Guild. That’s good advice for anyone.”

  I stop. He’s right. Back in my body, I shudder. I might become a target if I do too much, too fast. And the Guild's nothing to sneeze at.

  “We can build ships without slaves,” I say forcefully. “It just means one single person won’t be as rich as he was before.”

  Erson nods. “Then… I’ll try and make shipbuilders out of raiders.”

  “Lovely. Oh – and nobody dies in the pits anymore. I’ll shut them down if I have to.”

  “They’re not gonna like that.”

  “They can argue their case to my coarse nutsack, then. If they’re not willing to change, this isn’t the place for them anymore.”

  “I’ll get the word out,” he says. “When will you be back?”

  “Hopefully not sooner than I have to. As I said, don’t make me come back here. And get me a couple new Warlords - decent ones. Hot, too, if there's any such person on these shit-smeared islands.”

  He takes a notebook from a pocket, scribbling down a list. “Tomorrow will be a busy fucking day,” he mutters.

  "My deepest condolences on having to do your job again." I stand, clipping through the seat. “I’m gonna take a walk around. We’ll talk later.”

  He waves me off. I step through the table. The raiders gape silently as I head down the hall.

  “You already got your show today,” I call. “Walstad, give them a song.”

  He looks at me wide-eyed, mouth full of food. I laugh and stride through the door.

  Outside, it’s drizzling rain. Far to the west, the sun’s a crest on the horizon, sending warm splashes of color through gold-laced clouds. I head through the settlement past the now-empty slave pens. People are still about, settling in for the night. Despite it all, they make their lives here. They’re not part of what Irminric was doing, or at least not directly – they simply run their shops, ply their crafts, and try to find joy. They stare. Certainly, they knew who I was before this. Some of them are familiar. Are they relieved now that Irminric’s gone? Or are they worried I’m gonna take the path of vengeance? I give them a nod and my best charming smile as I go by.

  I find the empty docks. Over in the shipyard, things have come to a screeching halt, half-built skeletons of ships abandoned. The Black Tide still sits waterlogged. I smile. I find the end of the dock where I last boarded a ship out of here, crossing my arms and looking over the water. It’s calm today, the seas quietly lapping. Gulls circle overhead. The few dockworkers leave me alone.

  On the horizon, I spot the outline of a couple small, black shapes. Ships leaving, headed north to Rheda - not to take slaves, but to put them back. I take a deep, shaky breath, looking around at Jor. It’s horrendously familiar. Maybe killing Irminric was the easy part.

  The sun brightens, rays cutting through clouds and watering my eyes. I’m not even there, but a warm, salty breeze washes over me. The sunset seems especially pink.

  And I end the spell.

  I find Arriel and Weekes having breakfast downstairs. Coffee is waiting for me, along with a covered plate of baked eggs and sweet, cheesy, flaky pastries.

  “Good morning,” Weekes says as I sit. He’s more chipper than usual, which isn’t saying much. He smiles. “Look at this. We’re all together.”

  He means I’m not split open on a rock for the tide. Arriel squeezes my arm. “I’m sure that feels good.”

  I don’t want to think about it. “I had a chat with Erson – the slaves are all shipping out of there.”

  “You trust him?” Weekes says.

  I plow through some eggs. “If I’ve learned something, it’s that he’s looking out for one person only. But I’ve got the benefit of being able to knock him into the water plane with Irminric’s soggy corpse if he doesn’t play nice.”

  Arriel looks at me. “That’s what happened?”

  “I think so.”

  She blinks. “You… you confuse me sometimes.”

  I point my fork at her. “But I make you feel something.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s a bit Iros gave me. Or at least pointed out that I can do it. Do you know what a wish spell is?”

  Weekes stops chewing. He’s got a dandelion stem halfway out of his mouth. “My dad gives me those sometimes, but… not like that.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Watch.” He sets his fork down, stuffing his last bite of bagel in his mouth. “I wish to destroy that plate.”

  Magic condenses around him like static. The room darkens. He points, and a flash illuminates the room. A gray beam shoots from his finger. A decorative plate displayed on a nearby buffet table puffs into dust.

  Arriel puts her face in her hands. “That belonged to Bri’s grandmother.”

  His ears droop. “Oh, sorry. Chouncey, you can wish for it back, right?”

  “Sure, we can’t have the Ronchellards looking destitute.”

  “It’s fine,” Arriel cuts in. “What are you planning to do now?”

  This is the part I’ve been dreading. “Well, I’ve got slaves who need checking up on. I’m thinking I’ll go pay them a visit. They should have first benefit of everything we found in that vault. So, I’ll be headed back to Rheda.”

  “Could Rose and I go with you?” Weekes asks. “We want to settle in Port Nakanai.”

  A few weeks ago, I’d have preferred going off on my own. But now? The thought of leaving makes me miss him already. And Arriel?

  “Alright,” I say. “I'd not mind the company.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to stay,” Arriel says quietly. She smiles, but it’s sad. “I have important things to do. But you’re both always welcome here.”

  I finish my food. I gesture with my flask. “Then I’m thinking a celebration is in order. And a goodbye. Let’s put off until tomorrow and have a cracking good time tonight.”

  And they both smile.

  We meet in the foyer fifteen minutes later, ready to go. We turn when Lespira’s voice comes from the dining room. “Arriel? What happened to Grandma’s bread plate?”

  I strum a few chords and slap a pink square on the wall. We hustle outside, laughing.

  We grab a carriage to the Mid and share my flasks to get warmed up. Weekes sings with me while we rattle along with the windows down. We wander the Mid for the rest of the day, poking into taverns and grabbing street food from the undercroft. It becomes a blur after a certain point, Arriel holding me steady. But she doesn’t look annoyed. In fact, she’s glowing again. Rose joins us, and Weekes walks with her, holding her hand and making doe eyes at each other. He sobs out his drink when I play love songs on one knee in the park. Arriel plasters a strained smile on her face and claps.

  Somehow, I’m more alive than I ever was. It’s far from the first time I’ve boozed around Carthesia or somewhere else, but doing it with two dear friends is something new. It’s got me soaring, the four of us scattering hand-in-hand through a magical hole in the tavern when a surly gnome tells me to quit singing, and it turns into a scuffle with a stool leg. I leave a boot print on his face. Maybe the world feels brighter knowing there’s no black dragonkin sucking the good from it. Or maybe it’s knowing I’m not alone and someone would’ve cared if I’d been marinated in acid in front of a cheering crowd.

  The Mid bustles with people as the sun goes down. We wade into a new tavern while I’m telling Weekes, Arriel, and Rose about being chased from Taihar by a superstitious bugbear who walked in on me fucking my arcane hand. Arriel’s got her face in her hands, but I think she’s hiding a laugh. I start a groove as we enter, and soon half the place is singing with me.

  Drink up

  Half in the bag already

  Another

  Let's go and hang one on

  We're getting smashed up here, and we're

  Not going home tonight

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  One more

  We're tore up from the floor up

  One more

  We're going two doors over

  We're going on the lash, and we're

  Not going home tonight

  Wait a minute, hold the tab

  We'll take another round of grab

  We're a well-oiled machine

  Sit back down and sail the sea

  One more eye-opener with me

  Raise a glass and let's see

  I bring them through another couple choruses. They thump the wood as I finish, sweeping a bow from atop a table. Rose and Weekes find seats, and I head to the busy bar with Arriel. I wedge into some space.

  “Remember, you gave your word,” she says. She’s drinking cheap wine.

  I toss down another shot, then point at her with it. “I did. Give me tonight, though. I’ll start fresh in the morning.”

  She looks me over in that familiar way. “I believe in you. I want you to remember that when it gets hard.”

  My gut clenches. “Please. I’ve got no reason to be doing this anymore. How hard can it be?”

  She smiles sadly. “All the same.”

  I grab my mandolin and play a quick riff. I cock my head at her. “You gave me your word, too.”

  She half turns away, glancing around. She lowers her voice. “I – please don’t make me do it here.”

  “Well, I can’t make you do anything. It’s a matter of whether you’re gonna leave me disappointed on this, the night of celebrating me still being alive. Besides, you want to keep good relations with the Byrian Isles, right?”

  She sighs. “Fine. Let’s just… maybe over there.”

  I don’t look where she’s pointing. “Oh, no. I’m getting up on that table again, and you’re gonna join me.”

  Her warm blue eyes widen. She becomes rooted to her spot. “No. Please, no. Chouncey.”

  I laugh. I lean in closer, raising a brow. “You’ll have me there with you. I’ll be doing most of the work.”

  “That’s –”

  “Lady Arriel, are you telling me I can walk into certain death in the middle of an arena, but you’ll not sing one song in front of some maudlin peasants? It's the easiest audience in the world.”

  “I can’t sing. I’m terrible.”

  I touch her face. “You’ve got the face of an angel. I don’t see a reason why you haven’t got the voice of one. If there’s a hundred people here, one of them wants to hear it before he doesn’t see your sweet self again for a long while.”

  Something changes in her eyes. She takes a long drink of her wine. I extract myself from the crowded bar, strumming and warming up.

  “No, wait –”

  I pluck some harmonics and shape a translucent pink illusion over the whole tavern. From nowhere in particular, music starts playing – a whole band doing a stomping, percussive chord progression. The tavern quiets, people looking around eagerly.

  I step onto a nearby table, drawing eyes to me. I kick some empty cups out of the way. The table’s residents gape. I strum the melody. Through the illusion, my voice comes loud enough to carry over the bustle. “I hope you’re all having the time of your life tonight. Would you mind me taking you all through a song or five?”

  Cheers and raised cups greet me. A raucous roar comes from the corner. Weekes and Rose clap.

  “My dear wife here promised she’d sing with me, but frankly, she’s not brave enough to get up here. Would you all help her along?”

  I applaud. It draws more cheers.

  I turn. Arriel’s looking at me from the end of the table, cup of wine fused to her grip. I offer a hand down.

  A small smile and a laugh crack her beautiful face. She slugs down more wine and takes my hand. And she steps up with me.

  The music picks up, and I play a bit more. I lean. Her face is scarlet. “It’s just a kids’ song. I’m sure even an orphan from the Low knows this one.”

  And I start singing. She opens her mouth, pausing, and then joins me.

  When it's dark and cold and wet

  And you haven't been home yet

  You don't have to

  Feel like you are lost, alone, afraid

  There's a place down deep inside

  Where you will find all your tears dried

  Where you will find your courage and

  The strength to go your way

  Call on the light that guides us

  When you have far to go

  And when you can't find home

  Call on the light that guides us

  You'll find a glow inside

  Where darkness cannot hide

  She’s quiet at first, then picks up confidence. Soon, she’s singing good and proper. I’ve never seen her look so beautiful. Her voice drifts over mine, an unpolished gem of a countertenor, and I twirl around it, harmonizing. It's like a warm wash of sunlight on my face. The tavern rumbles with cups banging tables and voices churning along. I skip and dance the length of the table, and she follows. There’s another weight, and Weekes appears, arms up and a drink in his paw-hand. He does some fancy hopping and dancing with his rabbit feet. He belts it along with us. My illusion carries it out into the streets, where faces poke through the doorway. And my heart soars higher than it ever has.

  I add a new verse:

  When your cups are empty and

  You're losing feeling in your hands

  Morning's coming

  Faster than you'll catch a carriage home

  Sit back down and have a bite

  Or maybe pick another fight

  But have another round before you

  Stumble out and roam

  We belt through another chorus, and I bring it to a close, letting voices carry it, directing the beat for everyone with my flask. The final note hangs, then thumping applause greets us. I sling an arm around both Arriel and Weekes, and we bow. I harness my illusion to keep it going, just me on the table leading more songs. We step down. Arriel catches me before I eat the floor.

  “Hey,” Weekes says, grabbing me as we head back toward the bar. “Rose and I want to go into the necklace. Could you hang on to it for me?”

  “I sure can,” I say. I pat him on the cheek. “Don’t forget to drink some water, this time.”

  His baby ear goes red. “I won’t.”

  He hands me the necklace and, a moment later, reappears with Rose. They slide in, and I slip it in my chest pocket.

  “That was amazing,” a half-orc says to her friend next to me, gaping at my illusory self on the table.

  “He’s decent,” I say. They both turn to look, blinking. I smile and toast them with my flask. “That,” I say, turning to Arriel, “was everything I hoped. Thank you.”

  She smiles into her wine. “Maybe I needed it.”

  “It’s a fetching look on you, loosening up around that stick up your ass.” I lean against the bar, sipping from my flask. She rolls her eyes.

  “Hey,” she suddenly says, looking up at me. I can hardly hear her over the singing crowd. I lean closer. “Please don’t be a stranger when you leave.”

  My heart withers. For the first time in a long while, the thought of wandering off tears at me. I don’t want to stay, but… there’s good things here. I get lost in her azure eyes, flicking with fair lashes. My heart withers a little more. How am I supposed to come back and remain friends when I want her like this? Maybe it’s for the best that I go.

  “Are you saying you’ll miss me?”

  She smiles and looks away, taking a drink. Her cheeks are starting to flush with it. A group of dwarves prods through to the bar, and she shuffles closer to me. “You’ve certainly… brightened my life recently. And… I’m not immune to the way you draw people. I’d be heartbroken to never see you again. Just like I’d be heartbroken to know you’re no longer in this world. So please don’t go away and forget about me. Or Weekes. Or us.”

  Her voice is surprisingly thick. It pricks at me. “I don’t think I could.”

  I lean against the bar. We’re nearly touching. I brush a bit of her tawny blonde hair back. She doesn’t shy away from it. “Bri will be back soon,” she says. “I talked with her earlier. I told her everything that’s been going on.”

  Another part of me withers. Soon, she’ll be busy seeing her wife again and doing whatever it is she has to do. Whatever this was – me, Arriel, and Weekes coming together to win my freedom – is fading. Maybe it’s stupid to think it’d last forever. “I’m sure you’ve got some face-first catching up to do.”

  “I’ve missed her. She’ll be happy to know I’ve been holding my own,” she says. Her warm blue eyes glisten with a bit of moisture. She looks up at me. “But I told her about you. I reminded her that… I made certain choices when I decided to be in a relationship with her. I made concessions, even if they’re different from what I was raised with. It’s only fair that she try to make some of those concessions for me. And she has. Sometimes, a kiss doesn’t mean anything. Other times, it means a lot. And I love her for understanding that.”

  The rest of the crowded tavern fades. I can only see her face, the smoothness of her skin, the curve of her neck. I’m breathless, catching up on what she’s saying. I’m missing something. But at the same time, I think I understand.

  “I am saying that I’ll miss you,” she says. “Far more than I thought I would, pulling you from that ditch.”

  I smile, grazing over her face like it’s the last time I’ll see it. I’m not the least bit sure how to thank her for the kindness she’s shown me, even in the worst of it. It’s some of the only kindness I’d seen in five or more years. “You’re an angel if I ever saw one. And I’ll miss you like my last breath.”

  I lean closer, close enough to feel the warmth of her verbena-scented hair and the smell of cheap wine. She doesn’t pull back. I slip a hand to her waist. I brush against her lips, nuzzling. Her breath quickens. I nudge against her, kissing her – gently, lightly. She doesn’t stop me. In fact, she touches my chest.

  Everything else fades – the heat of the bodies pressed around us, the bustle of voices, the music of my illusion drifting over it all. Behind my eyes, there’s only light. It’s in the softness of her lips, the taste of cheap wine, the strength of her body pressed against mine in the throng of people. It’s in the sight of her glowing face the first time I saw it, the first light I’d seen in years, impossible to miss. And maybe in her embrace, I feel something I felt in an airy room standing across from a glowing sun god - true, everlasting light that chases away any black, churning waters. For a moment, giving her my word doesn’t feel so impossible.

  She kisses me back, our lips sealed together. I touch her smooth face, holding her closer. My blood thrums. I quiver, imagining her against my skin, sweat mingling between us, brilliant stars in the heat we’d discover together. I pull away, only just.

  “My back would look exceptional between your legs. Are you sure I can’t convince you to spend tonight with me?”

  “I’m sure you could,” she says under the hum of voices. “But I don’t want you to. Not if you’re going to leave.”

  I’ll stay forever, I want to say. But it’d be a lie, and we’d both know it. I’m somehow the Warchief of the Byrian Isles, the Warlord of Jor. I’ve set free thousands of slaves who need me – who need someone. They’ll be arriving soon. And if I don’t follow through, they’ll end up back on that island again – or worse. If I don’t show up for them, it’ll be like if Arriel never showed up for me.

  And I have to go. I’ve stayed here too long already. I’ve been jittery with the thought of it, late at night before the whiskey smacks me to sleep. Will I ever want to stay in the same place again? Will I ever find someone I’d stay for?

  “Then I wish you and your dear wife only the best,” I say waveringly.

  She smiles a little. “Before this, I was constantly worried about whether Bri and I fail in fighting Orinthius. But watching you do the impossible has me feeling much more confident in our chances. Are you sure I can’t convince you to join us?”

  I press my lips together. “I’m not sure how to tell you this, but… Coramine is round.”

  She looks like she’s gonna clobber me. She backs away, makes a disgusted noise, and swats me on the arm. “Why do I like you?”

  I put a hand against my chest. “Please, honor me with your answer.”

  A smile pulls at her. She drains the rest of her wine and sets her cup on the bar. “Here,” she says, digging in a pocket. She pulls out a small, pink, heart-shaped token. She hands it to me. “I’m sure you’re running out of these.”

  I don’t take it. “I’ve got plenty. And it’s freely given. Keep it. It might be worth quite a bit someday.”

  She palms it, tucking it back away. “I’ll bring it with me when we go, then.”

  I touch her chest, near her heart. “I’d be happy knowing you’re keeping it close to yours.”

  “I think I have been for a while,” she says quietly. Then, she looks up at me. “I’m going home. Please be safe and say goodbye before you leave.” She touches my face. “And… I’ll pray for you.”

  I’ve heard it a dozen times before, but always in a preachy way. This is different. There’s something deeper behind it, like she really means it. It’s comforting, even, knowing I’ll be in her thoughts. Warmth eases through me.

  Then, she turns and vanishes into the crowd of people.

  I’m left there, absolutely empty. I take a long swig of my flask. I laugh. Or maybe it’s a sob that comes out. It’s the kind of emptiness that whiskey’s not gonna fill. I know I'm gonna try anyway.

  I stay for a couple more hours. I can’t bring myself to sing anymore. Plenty of people ask, but I just want to be left alone. I order more shots, telling myself each one’s the last and to enjoy it. I’ll not get another. But I do. With gut-wrenching clarity, I know what I have to do. And I can only see Arriel’s disappointed face if I tell her I can’t do it.

  The room’s spinning when I look up. I glance down the line of people at the bar, and a sleek, striped catfolk is looking at me. They give a familiar, coy smile. I have to get out of here. Or I never will.

  I stand and throw down my last shot. It’s bitter and cheap. Then I grab onto a ley line, clear my throat, and sing:

  In spite of all that has transpired,

  Take me back – I’m fucking tired

  With a strange condensing of magic and a swirl of pink, I’m whisked away through blackness.

  And I land in front of the Ronchellard estate.

  I stagger. My gut lurches. I groan, horking into a nearby bush. It’s sour. I straighten, shuffling inside.

  It’s quiet, nearly everyone asleep. It’s gotta be close to dawn. I drop Weekes’ necklace on a decorative padded bench in the foyer. And then I wander until I find the door I’m looking for. I push inside. It’s a small chapel. There’s a single bench for sitting, along with padded space in front of an idol with a sun icon on its chest. Ambient light comes from somewhere, although I can’t see a source. It’s peacefully quiet.

  I close the door and step closer. I have to do this. I gave her my word. And after all I’ve done to make sure I and everyone else are free, I have to stay alive long enough to enjoy it. I have to stay alive for my friends who’ll miss me. I have to stay alive and become the hero I needed.

  Like some mornings when I wander past here and see Arriel in quiet prayer, I kneel in front of the idol.

  A strange sense of warmth eases inside me. The ambient light winks. I breathe, taking a swig of my flask. I stop, looking at the three stickers there.

  “I want it,” I say quietly before I can stop myself. “Being your Champion. But I need your help first.”

  There’s only silence, but the light around me flickers.

  My throat wells. Words spill out – things I’ve never said to anyone, things I haven’t wanted to think about. “I’m in too deep. Before all this, it didn’t matter. But now… I sent him to his grave, but it’s still there, and I can’t see the bottom. I keep feeling like if I reach too far, I’ll find him. How am I supposed to spread light when I’m afraid of the dark?”

  A ray of sunlight coils around me. It’s a familiar brush like the body that held me up in the devastating magical ruin of the Pit. It beckons inside. I close my eyes, following. It leads me down, floating and flickering toward the black, churning waters. They crash and break against craggy rocks, droning and constant. I hesitate. But there’s no feeling of judgement, no wondering how I can live like this. It approaches the edge, and I follow it.

  Thrumming overhead is a magical connection – the most powerful one I have.

  I feel it, running a finger and plucking its tension. It wants to be harnessed. My mouth is dry. The light warms me, prodding me onward. It coils around my hand, guiding.

  I’m sweating. The jitteriness wells inside, no longer checked by the flask in my hand. The waters crash higher. What’s going to keep it away if I stop? How long can I live like that? Am I gonna end up right back where I am?

  The light nuzzles against me. I peer into the black waters. Instead of a spiky face, there’s a glimmer of light at the bottom.

  I reach out and grasp the connection.

  It reverberates through me, through the ground, through the whole world. Magic broils. I grit my teeth, holding myself from bursting into bits.

  “I wish I didn’t have to drink anymore,” I whisper.

  The black, churning waters are flooded with sourceless light. Where once they seemed bottomless, it’s only a few inches deep.

  I see everything all at once. Panic thrashes through me. The blood – so much of it – wetting the packed dirt of the pit. The horrible faint moans of people strapped to a rock for the tide, Irminric watching and waiting. The demonic laugh of Catherine as she burns a slave who happened to be too close. The snap of Torm’s whip and the scream as it slaps against a flayed back.

  But at every moment, it’s replaced with an image, a feeling of warmth. A soft breeze blowing across my face, the gentle spray of sea water, and the bobbing waters of a dock as I stand and watch ships crest the horizon, headed north with freed slaves. The setting sun is thrust with orange, gold, and purple. With pink.

  My throat wells. The image solidifies like a pane of glass. And the churning water stills, a seal resting over it. It's the sweetest relief I've ever known.

  Then, something is ripped from me like a scab.

  I grunt. Or scream. It’s like the discordant twang of a broken string – the connection to the seventh severs and drifts away. Then the sixth, the fifth, and all the way down. The music fades, the resonant harmonic tones. I gasp. My blood sears. I clutch myself. I’m sweating.

  Then gold light tendrils downward, reaching like fingers, humming like a familiar voice.

  But it blurs. I’m hit with unimaginable exhaustion. I can hardly stay upright. I sway.

  And then blackness swallows me.