Chapter 10

  Problems

  Vitomir’s shallow breaths filled the cramped cockpit, each one more labored than the last. His head rested limply against the wall, his skin ashen and drawn. Sabo crouched beside him, his hand pressing gently against the blood-soaked bandages wrapped around the older man’s chest.

  Suddenly, Vitomir stirred, his lips parting as a single, strained word slipped out. “Boro… Where’s Boro?”

  Sabo blinked, confused. “Boro?” he repeated, leaning closer. “What do you mean? What’s Boro? . . . Who’s Boro?”

  For a moment, Vitomir didn’t answer. His gaze flickered weakly, unfocused, and then it clicked in Sabo’s mind—the knight. The Morduin knight who had crashed onto the ship’s deck. The one he had dragged below deck at Vitomir’s insistence. Who had given him the scroll that contained . . . that thing.

  Sabo’s expression darkened as he remembered the mangled body of the knight, the blood-soaked chaos that followed the arrival of the other two masked knights of Mordua, and the flames. He looked back at Vitomir and shook his head slowly. “He . . . he didn’t make it,” Sabo said, his voice low. “I’m sorry.”

  Vitomir didn’t react at first. Then his eyes closed, and his face slackened, a silent resignation settling over him. “I see,” he murmured, almost to himself.

  Sabo hesitated, unsure of how to respond. The question hung heavy between them—how had Vitomir known the knight? But before he could ask, his thoughts turned again to the strange object that Boro had given him.

  “Boro gave me something,” Sabo said hesitantly, watching Vitomir’s face for any flicker of recognition. “It’s . . . it’s strange. A small scroll. The other knights, the ones chasing him—they wanted it. I think it’s why he came here.”

  Vitomir’s eyelids fluttered open, his gaze sharpening just enough to focus on Sabo.

  “He mentioned something about a tower,” Sabo continued. “Hecate’s Tower? Does that mean anything to you?”

  At the mention of the name, Vitomir’s expression shifted. His brows furrowed, his lips pressing into a thin line as he repeated the words under his breath. “Hecate’s Tower . . . Of course…!”

  The pause that followed felt like an eternity. Sabo watched Vitomir intently, his stomach knotting as the older man’s breathing slowed, growing more uneven. He reached out instinctively, gripping Vitomir’s shoulder. “Vitomir, stay with me! Please!”

  Vitomir blinked slowly, his gaze distant but resolute. “So that’s what they’re after,” he said, his voice a rasping whisper. His eyes fixed on Sabo, and for the first time in what felt like hours, there was a spark of clarity in his expression. “Listen to me, boy. You take that gift from Boro. You take it and use it.”

  “Use it?” Sabo echoed, unsure if he wanted to understand.

  “Use it to become stronger,” Vitomir said, his voice steadying despite his obvious pain. “Be a thorn in their side—both the Empire and that damned Church that pulls the strings from the shadows. Use their own damned weapon against them. Find the Tower, Sabo. Find Hecate’s Tower, and stop them. Whatever they want . . . it must be at the top of the Tower. You . . . you’ve got to. You’ve got to do it. I’m too damned old.”

  Sabo’s mind reeled, his thoughts spinning out of control. He’d always known that Vitomir had a past, a history of military service with the Crown Coalition Forces that he rarely spoke of, but this? This was something else entirely. The calm, unassuming man who had raised orphans in some quiet backwater in the Far Country was somehow tied to the imperial-backed Church? It was a fact so far from the reality Sabo had lived for so many years. He couldn’t comprehend what he was hearing.

  And this wasn’t just some kind of rag-tag resistance effort. No, this was something so important that two Morduin knights were willing to slaughter everyone aboard this ship to obtain it.

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  “Vitomir,” Sabo began, his voice shaking. “What’s going on? What’s this Tower? I . . . I need to know what you’ve gotten us involved in.”

  But Vitomir didn’t answer. His head lolled back against the wall, his breathing shallow once more. The spark of clarity in his eyes faded, replaced by exhaustion.

  Sabo gritted his teeth, his grip tightening on Vitomir’s shoulder. His mind was a whirlwind of questions and half-formed thoughts, but one thing was clear: this Tower—Hecate’s Tower—held something important. Something the Morduin Order wanted. Whatever this scroll was, whatever Boro had entrusted to him, it was bigger than he could comprehend.

  Bigger than he was ready for. Jebati, he silently cursed in the Olenish tongue.

  The voice came unbidden, slipping into Sabo’s mind like a dagger into flesh, sharp and grating.

  < I like the sound of this Tower,> it purred. Its words oozed with hunger, each syllable coiling around his thoughts. < The old mortal’s plan has potential. If there will be more of those priests at this Tower of his, then there will be plenty of powerful sorcerers to Devour. I demand you take me to the Tower now, servant. Go! >

  “Shut up!” Sabo snapped aloud, his voice harsh and cutting through the oppressive stillness of the cockpit.

  Vitomir stirred at the sudden noise, his heavy-lidded eyes cracking open to give Sabo a bewildered look. “What?” the older man rasped, his voice weak, barely audible over the sound of his labored breathing.

  Sabo stiffened, realizing he’d spoken without thinking. “Nothing. I’m sorry,” he muttered, but Vitomir’s expression shifted. His brow furrowed, and a faint spark of realization flickered behind his exhausted gaze.

  “The Divine Mark,” Vitomir murmured. His breathing hitched, and he grimaced, pressing a trembling hand against his bloodied chest. “Sabo . . . which one is it? Which one was Boro able to extract and steal away from those bastards?”

  “Which one?” Sabo repeated, frowning. “What are you talking about?”

  But Vitomir’s face twisted with pain, and he slumped further against the wall. His voice was little more than a whisper now. “The Marks . . . of the Divine . . .”

  “Stop talking,” Sabo said, his tone firm but tinged with panic. “You need to rest. You’ll be fine, alright? You can’t die on me, you old bastard. You owe it to me to survive this.”

  Vitomir tried to speak again, but his strength failed him, his eyes fluttering shut as he slipped back into uneasy unconsciousness.

  Sabo let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, his hands clenching into fists at his sides so tightly his palms hurt. He couldn’t think about the strange words or the ominous questions. Not now. They would need to wait for Vitomir’s recovery. Then. Then, he’d get the answers he sought from the old man.

  “Touching,” a voice interrupted from behind him. “But I was trying to tell you that now may not be the ideal time to check on the wounded.”

  Sabo whirled around, glaring at the white-haired woman standing in the doorway of the cockpit. Her red eyes gleamed in the dim light. Though her expression was otherwise neutral, those eyes were as sharp as cold steel.

  “And why is that?” he asked, his voice edged with irritation.

  She tilted her head, her expression still casual despite the tension in the air. “Because we’ve got a bigger problem to deal with.”

  Sabo narrowed his eyes. “And what might that be?” he asked, gesturing to the wreckage around them. “We’ve crash-landed in the middle of gods-know-where, without a skyfin. With numerous injured, and limited rations. Which problem could you possibly mean?”

  As if in answer, the sound hit them—a deep, unnatural roar, layered with a thousand monstrous cries like bestial distortions of a sea of people screaming in agonized pain. It was a cacophony of anguish and rage, a sound that made Sabo’s stomach lurch. He froze, his heart pounding as the noise reverberated through the trees.

  He knew that sound. He had heard something like it before, back in the Green Sea. It was a sound that haunted his dreams, the sound of something that should not exist. Maldrath. The Maldrath horde were figments clawed from the fabric of humanity’s nightmares and given physical form. When he and Vitomir were first captured by the Empire, they were placed into a work camp within the Green Sea. And in the blackness of night, the forest would come to life with a symphony of horrors. There were always fewer of them the following morning. Something would feed on them…

  Without another word, he rushed past the woman, his legs shaky but moving on instinct. She followed close behind, her footsteps light and quick.

  The deck was a mess of smoke and flickering torchlight. Prisoners clustered together in uneasy groups, their faces pale and tense. Some were pointing toward the edge of the tree line surrounding the makeshift clearing their airship had formed upon its crash landing. Their voices were hushed and frantic.

  Sabo followed their gazes and felt his breath catch.

  From the shadows of the trees, a tide of inky black masses emerged, their shapes shifting and writhing as they pushed through the undergrowth. Trees cracked and splintered under their force, the forest itself seeming to bend and break in their wake.

  And then there were the eyes. Hundreds of them, glowing yellow orbs, burning like embers in the dark. A vigil drawn to a gigantic coffin. They blinked and flickered, each one a window into a seething, otherworldly hunger.

  The white-haired woman stepped up beside him, her arms crossed, her expression grim but calm. Her fingers brushed across the smooth voidstone collar around her neck.

  “That,” she said simply.

  That’s indeed a bigger problem, he couldn’t help but silently concede. “Gods dammit…”