Kess came to moments later in the darkness underneath the warehouse. A lamp flared to life as she sat up, groaning, and Rowan rushed towards her. He knelt beside her, his face no better than that of a worried mother. Kess smiled at him, patting his face affectionately, then laughed, though she was exhausted and her head ached fiercely. It was a different ache from the burning one she’d had the last several days, and the heat was gone from her body, at least.

  “Are you going to tell me what all that was about now?” he asked. “Or should I just assume you’re stormsick?”

  “You already knew I was stormsick.”

  “Kess, the last time you used that much power, you almost died. Clouds, you used more this time.” Kess just waved him off, an inkling of something forming in her mind.

  “The last time I did something like that, I had significantly less training,” she said. She glanced up. Though she could no longer see the storm, she could feel it, comforting and robust. Floodstorms always felt so lifeless, but this one was different. It was as if she had attracted the swelling energy of the Lightstorms or the Drystorms to her beck and call. “Besides, some of that was optical illusion.”

  “Some of it?”

  “Fulminancy attaches itself to metal, just like lightning does. What do you think that cage up there is made of? And some of the support struts in a building this big are metal too. It’s no different from your lights, really.”

  Rowan’s eyes trailed from one support strut to another, visible even under the warehouse, obviously processing what she’d done. Kess pushed herself to her feet, weaving slightly. What she had done wasn’t as otherworldly or dangerous as Rowan seemed to think it was, but it had still taken a toll. Rowan steadied her, then helped her sit down on the edge of the ring again, her feet dangling.

  “So you channeled it through the ring and then to the edges of the building.”

  “Exactly,” Kess said. She gestured towards one of the boxes she’d kicked earlier. “Bring me a drink. I’m going to need it for tonight.”

  Rowan rolled his eyes, but fetched a dusty bottle of wine and uncorked it. Kess studied it for a moment before taking a few sips. It had mostly turned to vinegar, and she winced, but at least it helped with the headache—for now, anyway.

  “Clouds, Kess, you could at least tell a man what you’re doing.”

  “Your shock was part of the performance. They wouldn’t believe it if you sat there with your customary scowl, now would they?” Rowan just gave her a flat look that was none too amused. Kess offered him the bottle and hopped down unsteadily as he shook his head. She left it on the ring—she would need a clear head for the rest of the night, even if it was aching.

  “So now you’ve frightened off most Forgebrand by convincing them that you are, in fact, their god. Was that all there was to this?”

  Kess dug through a box, retrieving her cloak and a mask she’d found earlier for the occasion. “Of course not,” she said, donning the mask. “Now that we’ve scared off all the sensible people, that leaves us with the stormsick bastards who want to be part of this nonsense. We’ll get them to either watch us break into the Archives or help us, depending on how lucky we get Uphill.”

  “So you pretended to be a god so you can find the men in a violent militia with no sense of self preservation and hire them for a sensitive operation Uphill,” Rowan said slowly. Kess just smiled at him from behind her mask. “And you don’t think anyone’s going to connect you to Mariel or Lady Kess.” Kess just kept smiling.

  “And we’re going drinking with them,” she said. She looped her arm with Rowan’s and walked towards the exit as he sighed deeply. “Let’s go.”

  Rowan sat with Kess at a tavern specifically intended for Forgebrand, wearing his own mask. Kess insisted that the lights and Fulminancy had made it hard to identify anyone, and they’d left Eamon outside the tavern to warn of any Uphill patrons. Still, the mask did little to hide his—or Kess’s—actual identity.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  He couldn’t decide if Kess was stormsick or brilliant. Like Eamon said, maybe the two overlapped more than he’d like to admit. She looked exhausted beneath the mask, but carried herself with an air of confidence and bravado that was hard to see through if you didn’t actually know the woman.

  Still, he worried.

  Claire liked to fuss, but she usually wasn’t wrong. Kess, unfortunately, seemed disinclined to ignore her Fulminancy now, even though she used it at half power, using little tricks like the ring in the warehouse to augment it when needed. It was a strange sort of way of dealing with her powers—not quite accepting them, but tolerating them. Fortunately, it was all she needed for now. Rowan just wondered what she would do when she needed more.

  When he was about to call it a night and suggest that Kess do the same, several men joined them at the table, wearing Forgebrand patches on their arms. Kess smiled and called for a round of drinks, but the men didn’t smile back. They did, however, accept her offer, downing tankards as she sipped her own. They were a motley crew—two twins with more scars than faces left, a dark man with strong features and a mop of dark hair, likely from outside Hillcrest. Other men lurked nearby, but it was clear that the dark man was the leader, the twins his backup, and the men in the room, more of his crew.

  After a moment or two, the man set down his tankard and eyed Kess. The difference in size was comical, but Fulminancy was a great equalizer.

  “Good of you all to join me,” Kess said. “We can—“

  “Listen, lass, let me save you some breath,” the dark man said. “I came here to tell you we want nothing to do with this bleeding heart Forgebrand you’ve set up. We don’t worship you or recognize your authority, but the authority of the Mariel who set up the Seat in the first place.”

  “The current Seat of Mariel is a direct descendant of the Founder,” Kess said, calmly sipping her ale. “You’d deny one of her own children?”

  “I’d deny any runaway coward who left the Downhill to rot for so long,” the man said, his voice a low rumble. “The real Mariel fought for the lower city. What have you done, lass? You show up after Draven’s dead and gone to take over Forgebrand, which he conveniently left to you on a will that few have seen. You ask men who have fought for years to give up the fight because of a little bloodshed? The last anyone saw of you was a personal fight with some of the Uphill folk, and then you fake your own death until it’s convenient for you.” He slammed his mug on the table, spraying Kess and Rowan with the ale. Rowan put a hand on his sword hilt, and several other men did the same. “We don’t want any part of what you’re offering. We don’t need you, and you don’t lead Forgebrand.”

  He moved to stand, his men moving with him, and Kess sat there next to Rowan, her face momentarily stunned. Then she gathered herself, determination in her eyes again.

  “Wait,” she said.

  The men didn’t stop.

  “Please, wait. If what I did to save the people in those wagons means anything to you, you’ll listen to me, at least.”

  That did stop a few of them. Several of the men turned, watching their leader, their eyes uncomfortable. The dark man turned, looming over the table.

  “You have a minute, lass. For the people in those wagons.” Kess pushed her ale away and turned towards him, her body half twisted on the bench.

  “What if I have a job that would destroy something precious to the Uphill?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The Archives,” she said simply, holding his gaze. Rowan pushed down a groan. Clouds, Kess, what are you doing? “The Uphill adores the place and thinks they have it well guarded, but I’ve seen what Forgebrand can do. We pilfer it and destroy it, right in the center of the city. A symbol of what’s to come.”

  Their leader regarded Kess for a very long moment, his face still warring with doubt. Then one of the scarred men with him spoke up.

  “She did save my family, boss.” Another behind him piped up.

  “Mine too.”

  There was a slight murmur as a few others voiced their agreement. Finally, their leader sighed. “One job,” he said, holding up a finger. “If it’s not to my liking or anything seems off about it, I’m bailing and taking my men with me. Understand?”

  Kess nodded, a little too quickly, and the men left after agreeing upon a method to exchange information. Men gone, Kess let out a sigh and a small groan.

  “Well,” Rowan said, his voice mock-cheerful. “Now all we need to do is get access to the Archives. Should be easy.” Kess gave him a withering look.

  “I’d prefer we just break in with the men.”

  “Of course you would,” Rowan said, getting to his feet. He helped Kess up—she was still off balance, for all she tried to act like she was fine. “You know,” he said as they left the tavern, “I think you missed your calling as a thespian. You have a flair for the dramatic that even bards would envy.”

  “I didn’t miss my calling,” she said. “Throwing matches is all about perception. In a ring, on the stage, and in life, perception is reality.”

  She winked at him from the mask as they strolled their way through a sodden city.

  NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s and publisher’s exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.