Myraden spent hours in her old bedroom, perusing the shelves and brushing ash off the ruins of her old life.

  But there was no going back.

  After a few hours of deep thought, and when the sun began to dip below the horizon, she had an idea.

  How was she going to accomplish her goals? Simple. Hopefully. It felt wrong, so it was probably the right track. “I will trust Pirin, I will support the king, and I will help him along the right path.” Without a steady hand, she could help bring about the stable, free, and kind Sirdia she’d dreamed of.

  A bolt of resonance blasted down her spine, shaking free the debris from the first three Inner Gates and opening them to her Essence.

  “Good,” said the Hand.

  “You know it worked? How?”

  “The look on your face.” He tapped his sword on the ground, then pointed out the window at the ruins of Harmkvord. “We should head down to the village. I’ve a suspicion it will uncover your Soul revelation much more easily.”

  She nodded, then took one last look around her old room. She let a burst of nostalgia flow through her, then locked it away and followed the Hand out of the room.

  They travelled back through the manor, then down to the path. The village was only a few minutes’ walk away, and it had always seemed younger when she was a child. But especially on her last night in ískan, it had felt like an eternity.

  It was hazy in her mind, and she’d purposely made it that way. She shut the memories deep inside, hoping they’d never resurface to plague her, but such things always wormed their way back to the surface.

  Especially when she was walking down the exact same road of her childhood.

  The sunset flashed like flame in her mind, sending deep orange rays over the hills, and she clenched her eyes, trying to hold the memories back. Her father holding her hand, her mother carrying an armful of blankets and supplies.

  They entered the village, passing the ruins of a house, and orange light filtered through its ruined walls and broken arches like flame. She shivered, trying to ignore the visions of sprinting through the city streets, soldiers approaching from all sides. Sprites burned, blood splattered across her face.

  Her father stood at the front of them, tall, proud, blonde hair flowing behind him as he whirled Lejavüdkue and swatted soldiers aside. He’d seemed so strong, even though, now, she knew she was stronger.

  At least, when it came to her magic.

  Kythen said, He was wiser and stronger of spirit, yes, but he was also older than you. Don’t despair.

  “I won’t,” she replied to him in íshkaben.

  Then don’t fall into a trance. Focus on here, on now, and the present.

  “But that won’t help me reach my revelations.”

  The Hand turned toward her, then said in Low Speech, “If I understand what you’re saying correctly, then…sadly, you must consider the past. But you must overcome. Think of where you once were, and what you are now. Why you want to advance, why you want to achieve your goals, is rooted in the past.”

  She stopped at an intersection between two streets, boots immersed in an ankle-deep bank of snow, then knelt down. “I…I do not know the difference between the soul revelation and the spirit revelation, Hand.”

  “You don’t?”

  “It feels like it is the same thing. Why do I want to achieve it? Because I have struggled. Because I want others to not have to know struggle. But that was part of the spirit revelation.”

  “Indeed. They can be the same. However, you must accept that as the reason why you want it.”

  “Because I want to do a good thing?”

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

  Usually, there was some sort of resonance, some hint that she was getting close. An early shiver, or maybe even a hint.

  But nothing, not even a hint.

  “Rarely does anyone live a simple enough, pious enough, pure enough life to achieve such a revelation,” the Hand said. “Life is complicated, and the wizards who make it as far as you have are not perfect. Neither are you.”

  “But I do want to help others,” she said. But she realized she’d just talked herself in a circle. “No,” she said. “I have suffered. Not a day has gone past that I did not wish it was not me, and none of this has happened. But…I used to tell myself I had no emotion, no empathy. And that simply is not true. Why do I want to help, to restore Khirdia and destroy the Dominion? Because I do have empathy.”

  For the second time that day, a shiver ran down her spine, and her upper two Inner Gates cleared. Essence poured through her Center-Rhun channel and up to the top of the channel, but she didn’t advance.

  Still one more.

  She turned to the Hand, about to ask him about the Eane revelation—maybe she could hit it right now and reach Wildflame—but he wasn’t looking at her. He held his sword at his hip now, sheathed, but with his hand on his hip and ready to draw in a flash.

  “What is wrong?” she whispered.

  “Do you sense Lord Two?”

  “No. But…I was not paying close attention to my senses. I was busy advancing and clearing my channels.” She shut her eyes and focussed on whether anything interacted with her core or not.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I sense nothing.”

  “Perhaps he is veiling himself to sneak up on us.”

  “I thought—”

  “He has changed tactics, then.”

  Myraden reached for her spear. With a push of Essence, it unwound from her shoulder. She glanced at Kythen and told him, “Be ready,” in íshkaben. He dipped his head confidently and bleated.

  “Ah, there they are…” a voice boomed over the ruins. At first, it sounded like it came from behind, and Myraden whirled around to face it, but by the time she spun, it came from the opposite direction. “The sprite returns to her homeland. Do you like my handiwork, girl?”

  Myraden scowled. “You—”

  “He’s trying to get a reaction out of you.” The Hand held out an arm in front of her. “Do not let him rile you up. Do you sense him?”

  There was a brief pulse of awareness in her senses when Lord Two had used a fortification technique to enhance his voice, but after that he dropped off entirely. It was too broad to pinpoint. She said, “I cannot.”

  Harmkvord was too small to hide in, and its surroundings were too barren to escape from an Unbound across.

  “If it comes to it, you must run,” said the Hand.

  “But…I still need my last revelation. You cannot—”

  “I can’t help you with your last revelation, Myraden,” he stated slowly. “You must know who you are, and no one else can guide you to that. Sometimes, it takes years. For some wizards, their whole lives.”

  “You might die.”

  “I probably will. I’m past my prime, Myraden. My knee aches, and so does my soul. I see now. I don’t get a perfect retirement. I don’t deserve one. I don’t get to ride off into the sunset. There’s only one rest I go to, and it will be the best rest I’ve ever had. But won’t go before…before Lord Kovar gives something back to the world. I will give you back, and you must save Sirdia.”

  She grimaced, but there was no arguing with a man who had chosen to die. She was about to ask where she was supposed to run to, but the Hand—who was currently looking south—smiled. “They’re coming,” he said.

  She spun in the direction he was looking, hoping to see Lord Two, but instead, silhouetted by the sunset, was an approaching airship. Its sails puffed, full of wind, and its enormous envelope cast a long shadow on the ground. When she squinted, she could just barely make out an Aerdian crest on the side of the envelope.

  Marshal The?mir.

  “You know, girl,” Lord Two continued, “I was not here during the Burning. I hovered high above Teyjkravi, slaughtering Cursebeareres and your useless Governor-King. But my marshals tell me the sprites of Harmkvord squealed and begged, and met their ends with great dishonour. We slew them in the streets, cleaved their heads off, and ripped out their eyes. In no particular order. And what did you do but run?”

  Myraden turned. He spoke for longer, and this time, she pinpointed his presence. He emerged from behind the ruins, approaching from the west, holding his chain-scythe at his side and spinning it slowly.

  “I would say I took no particular pleasure in the massacre, but that would be a lie. I did. Such rebellious, weak creatures should know their place—they violated the Dominion’s arrangement, and a deal is a deal.”

  “The airship is going to the harbour,” said the Hand. “It’s the best place to dock. Run, and I will hold him off.”

  Myraden opened her mouth, almost about to protest. It was only one Wildflame, and she was at the peak of Blaze. Perhaps together, with the Hand, she could defeat him.

  But then Lord Two removed the veil from his spirit altogether, and the pressure it exuded was almost enough to drive her to her knees. She wouldn’t do any good in her current state, and she’d just get in the way.

  The Hand pulled off his crimson glove and passed it to her. “Take it. There’s no one else to pass the job to. Keep the peace, do what you must, and advance. Then kill this wizard once he kills me.”

  Myraden snatched the glove out of his hand, then took a step back. “Hand…Lord Kovar, Nomad would be proud.”

  Then she sprinted toward the port.