Worne breathed heavy, each thunderous step jolting sharply through his bones. His objective was clear in sight: Madwen and her ritual.

  Daithi jogged after the dark-skinned man just ahead; the spry lord now seemed barely burdened by Madwen’s oppressive power.

  Madwen’s power.

  Worne couldn’t help but stare at that ghostly light. It shone like a second moon, fallen from the sky. Were Worne a sentimental man, he may have thought it beautiful, but this was not something to admire. Instead, he could think only of Fiamór and the destruction that overcame it. Gildaun must have been nearly a hundred times its size, yet still, Madwen held the city in place, free to manipulate its people like game pieces on a board.

  This. This was the true power of an omeness. A trebuchet could fell a wall, an army could fell a city, and an omeness could crush them all.

  Worne advanced through the now-still city, the only of three who could move. Doubtlessly, men, women, and children alike folded and crumbled within their homes, fearful that this spelt their end. By all accounts, they were correct, though Worne refused to let it be.

  “Help us,” cried a voice. Worne turned to see three people lying flat down a narrow alley. One of them, a man, reached for him, fingertips trembling under the immense weight that overwhelmed them.

  “Only darkness,” muttered one of the others. “Bring back the light.”

  Similar moans of suffering plagued the city, each cry horribly unique. Worne had sieged lands before, heard the cries of despair wrought by his hand, but this? This was a suffering only magic could create: there was no hope, no fighting, no resistance—only pain and torment. As he wove through the maze of narrow streets, the cries grew louder, each propelling him further.

  At last, Worne had reached the base of the hill. Every muscle burned with sour acidity, every bone ached loud and bellowing. He had made it thus far, however, now he needed only to climb. With every ounce of strength he could muster, Worne pushed forward up the hill, step, by step, by step.

  Madwen’s burden was heavy; heavier still as he neared the angelic light, grunting and growling with each tremendous, encumbered stride. Memories of his youth pierced the magical drone surrounding him; memories of scorching summer days, memories of hauling stone and lumber, memories of ceaseless mining and construction. It was as if he were a pack mule once again, though his only load to bear was Madwen’s.

  Rays of light blinded Worne as he crested the hill. Fat droplets of sweat dripped from his brows into his moustache; the pristine magical light gleaming off his freckled skin. Squinting, he could see her—frozen in place, eyes closed, heavenly light descending from the moon above down into the water-filled vase. Two dozen soldiers lay motionless in the dirt, entirely surrounding the omeness as if crushed mid-charge. Some of the men and women groaned; some made no noise at all.

  “Madwen!” shouted Worne, his gravel voice bombarding her serenity. Madwen grimaced at the disturbance and opened her eyes, her hands still perched perfectly in the air, guiding the moonlight into the vessel of water.

  “Worne? Why have you come here? Have you spoken to Daithi?” The omeness should have appeared differently. Worne couldn’t say how, only that her relaxed and unperturbed nature was wrong. How could a mind so obsessed with the well-being of others seem so tranquil when so many cried in pain by her hand?

  “Said I’d make sure nothing would happen!” Worne lurched closer, each breath laborious and hoarse.

  “Oh this?” she said, looking to the scattered bodies surrounding her. “These people are fine. I told them I needed to complete my experiment, but, well they chose not to listen, so I’ve put them on a little time out until I’m finished.”

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  Worne passed a female soldier lying flat on her stomach, reaching for her sword just out of reach.

  “Please,” murmured the woman, “I feel… I feel… nothing.”

  Worne locked eyes with Madwen. “Not like you to hurt innocents!”

  Madwen rolled her eyes. “Hardly innocent, aren’t they?” She’d have waved dismissively were her hands free to do so, though despite her casual appearance, the ritual did require precision.

  Worne took another step, the downward force on him so heavy that each footprint dug half an inch deeper into the dirt than was normal. He was nearly there, however, mere feet from the beacon of despair. He reached out a hand, but—

  “Uh-uh-uh,” Madwen sang.

  The weight bearing down on Worne doubled. He collapsed to one knee, straining, growling, face reddening.

  “I’ll not have you disturbing me either, darling,” said Madwen, with the sternness only a mother possessed.

  Worne tried to curse though only spittle seeped from his lips. Fucking… omeness! He had to fight to even think; his thoughts restrained as if by leather bindings. Worne fell forward even further, now hunched over on hands and knees. He stared down into the dirt.

  In that moment, with death in sight, something called to Worne; a delicate whisper in his breast pocket.

  I don’t need it!

  In truth, Worne had a solution, but there had to be another way, didn’t there?

  He slammed his fist into the dirt, mud flinging outward onto his face and clothing. He closed his eyes and focused.

  Madwen’s power, he thought. She’d always described it like water, like a flowing river or a well of magic. Even now, he could feel it pushing against him, crashing into him like stormy waves against the massive sea stacks that lined the eastern Clistetíran shores.

  He remembered rowing against such stormy seas in his past. He couldn’t remember why he rowed, only that it was something he had once done. He could see himself holding a heavy oar in the bowels of a massive warship, surrounded by familiar faces of equal misery to his, each grimacing as the ship ploughed through the great swells of an angry sea. They pulled hard after cresting a wave, then braced for the impact of the next, holding on Worne’s every command. Why was the something showing him this now? Was that the secret? Would it be enough?

  Worne ground his teeth, his eyes dark. He controlled his breath, stealing himself at the peak of the omeness’ swells of magic, then pushing and gasping, riding the waves down toward the next. During these ever-so-brief moments of momentum, Worne gathered any ounce of strength that still remained in his quickly breaking body.

  Each wave of energy flowing from the sorceress shook Worne to his very soul—if he had one. This was his job, his one sworn duty to his partner. He wouldn’t let her become like the murderer he passed on the king’s road: eyes full of only regret.

  With each push after each peak of power, Worne felt his own growing.

  Can’t let it happen again!

  This was the pain inflicted on each victim in Fiamór. This was the power that kept the low cities low and the high cities high.

  This is why you were created.

  This is why you serve.

  Worne twisted his face into a mask of pure fury. Every muscle in his body tensed, every fibre of his very being screamed.

  Worne bellowed a deafening roar and pushed himself from the dirt. He stumbled forward, reaching for the omeness. She flinched, eyes wide. Even with the flood of peace surrounding her, her focus wavered, causing the rivers of ritual magic to churn and tear at the channels within her.

  The furious mercenary’s hand was an inch away when the world, for a moment, stood still. Who are you, Madwen thought. This man shared the face of the mercenary Worne; it shared his figure and his anger too, but this… thing wasn’t him, was it?

  Worne’s fingers curled around Madwen’s thin forearm as he screamed. His grip stung like a pure frost she’d never before felt—Worne could feel it too. The glorious light from the heavens faltered and flickered. Madwen gasped, shaken awake by the rush of icy pain, releasing the stream of magic from which she indulged upon.

  The light of the ritual oscillated wildly, then vanished. Madwen’s bracelets dimmed; the living light snuffed from them like hot metal to water.

  At once, there was silence, almost eerie. Worne knelt, unmoving. Madwen teetered, then fell onto the old warrior. He moved to catch her, though he could hardly hold the tiny woman. His muscles ached, more than he thought they ever could.

  Madwen’s eyelids wavered as she lay limp in Worne’s arms. When he called her name, she heard nothing. She was so tired—so very tired.

  The quiet starry sky above began to blur. Cold surrounded her. It seemed to sap the very life from her. There was something else that touched her mind, however, something… gentle.

  Madwen smiled, then slipped into the deepest slumber. Peace, at last.