The vision causes Sol to pause, his fist frozen mid-air just before it connects.

  The strange man flips backward, throwing his heel up as he snaps it into Sol’s jaw, teeth clattering. He lands on his hands, a knife held between his toes. Launching himself forward, he smashes his foot into Sol’s solar plexus, stabbing him, and while still airborne—leveraged by the knife embedded in Sol—he crashes his shin into Sol’s jaw.

  Sol falls back, his vision failing him.

  He sees the man walking toward him in slow motion.

  The book now in front of Sol flips open, a spark of lightning striking between them as Sol falls through the floor as if it were a projection, not tangible. The man runs toward him, throwing his second knife.

  Sol lands in a foreign part of Seriol, the book still before him—the tip of the knife having passed through as well. He takes a moment to recalibrate.

  “Oh my god. Who was he? Was he responsible for all of this? What does he want? How did he know to come here?” A myriad of questions plague Sol’s mind.

  He fails to notice his jaw, swollen and leaning to one side, or the knife in his chest protruding from his back. The book—which had both cursed him and miraculously saved him, never allowing him reprieve from his torment—now, along with the tear, looked down upon him in sorrow. Or pity. Or shame.

  The book could not bear to look at its wielder.

  Returning to Yumi and Sol’s meeting in Rea.

  Sol is dry-heaving as Yumi looks at him, her lip raised in disgust and her brows furrowed. She stirs from her seat, grabs him by the back of the neck, and throws him out.

  Seraphiel awakens.

  His head pounds, his deep wound throbs, his sliced rib aches silently. He picks up his rapier, using it as a walking stick as he stumbles away from the canal and deeper into the slums.

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

  A group of men stand silently, smoking as they watch this sorry sight. Seraphiel wheezes, clutching his rib with one hand.

  “Oi, kid,” calls one man, taking a whiff of his pipe.

  Seraphiel looks up, eyes winced. As he approaches, the man takes the sword from him. Seraphiel stumbles forward.

  “Relax. I want to help you.”

  The man notices Seraphiel’s Cairnreach complexion, his evident youth, and his injured body, and cannot allow him to wander alone.

  “Come with us.”

  Seraphiel recognizes this would be an awful decision under most circumstances, but given the hand he’d been dealt, he’d be dead within days otherwise.

  They enter a back alley and slip into a rundown, under-the-table gambling parlor. As Seraphiel walks in, every eye darts toward him. No smiles—sadistic or otherwise—just stone-cold gazes.

  Assisted by one of the men, Seraphiel stumbles up the stairs and collapses onto a sofa.

  “Leave us,” the man who recruited him calls out.

  The door closes as the others depart. He tosses the sword onto the seat beside Seraphiel and sits opposite him, legs and arms crossed.

  The man is small, clearly not from Seriol—perhaps from Rea. His milky skin, not quite pale but not honeyed either, contrasts with his raven-black hair, marking him as a foreigner. Despite his stolid demeanor, his eyes are tender.

  “What happened to you, kid? What are you doing here?” he asks, melancholy in his voice.

  Seraphiel omits all details related to Sol, choosing only what he deems salient.

  “I—I know you won’t believe me,” he gasps. “I am a royal—from Cairnreach—dethroned by a usurper.”

  He strains as if lifting a weight, then inhales sharply.

  “I was exiled to the slums of Seriol,” he lies.

  The man studies him—his wounds, his missing eye, his complexion. He knows the Cairnreach royalty and their distinctive traits. He has no reason to doubt him. Why else would a royal be here in such a state? He knows of the new king, one who never shows himself.

  The man takes a whiff of his pipe, looks aside, then exhales smoke.

  “I believe you.”

  He pauses.

  “You on your own here? Found your way around yet?”

  “No,” Seraphiel mutters.

  “I can see you patched yourself up. That’s very good for a young man such as yourself—you should be proud.”

  “Yeah,” Seraphiel mutters again, not in the mood for niceties.

  “You can stay with us. We aren’t royals, but we value camaraderie above all else. We never leave one another for dead. The Spider can’t function optimally without all its legs, you know.”

  Camaraderie. That’s all Seraphiel wanted to hear.

  “Fine. But I won’t be staying long.”

  “Hm?” the man inquires.

  “I have to return to my land. I can’t allow it to be stolen from me so easily.”

  “Of course,” the man replies, as if it were obvious.

  He stands and extends a hand.

  “I am Madarame—formerly the High Pontiff of the Umbra in Rea.”

  Seraphiel looks up at the man claiming such a title and shakes his hand.

  “It’s good to meet you, king.”

  The man smiles.