I wake splayed on a couch underneath a plush wool blanket.

  That’s right – we’re in Weekes’ necklace. Arriel and Weekes are sitting on another couch, chatting. I squint. A couple bottles sit on the table beside the remnants of a meal. I remember only brief flashes of last night. I remember being on the low table, singing “the Lady Cleric” – the raunchy version – and getting clobbered by Arriel’s shoe when I enchanted her to dance along. I remember whipping up a new verse about how abysmal she is at playing cards. I remember a long, soppy discussion about Weekes asking Rose to marry him, both of us crying, Arriel rolling her eyes, and my illusion playing music all the while. I remember Lespira’s cat getting in here somehow. But mostly, I remember being among friends and not thinking of what today’s gonna bring.

  It all slams into me at once, though. I’m probably gonna die today.

  I fumble for my flask, finding it beside my pillow. I’m jittery. Black waters are simmering in my head. At least it’ll be mercifully gone soon. But at the same time, it twists my guts. I look at Arriel and Weekes. I don’t want to die. I’ve only just started living.

  “Good morning,” Arriel says. She flashes a smile. She was smiling more than ever last night - laughing, even. My chest throbs. But at the same time, I’m glad to see it one last time.

  “Good morning, lovely wife,” I say, propping myself on a fist. She shoots me a look. “And how radiant you are this fine day.”

  Then, we’re suddenly spat onto the floor.

  I get a face full of rug. I sit up. We’re in the foyer of the estate. Clothes and belongings are strewn about. “Cheeks, where in the sweet hells was the warning?”

  “Sorry! I lost track of time –”

  Arriel’s shoe hits him square between the ears. She peals with laughter. And the two of us join her.

  I eat a meager breakfast, my stomach only chewing on dread. It’s nearly noon. I’ve got a handful of hours before it’s time to get to Jor. I check through my things, making sure they’re all in good order. I find Lespira again, and soon I’ve got a new spell scroll. I’ve gotta keep all my stamina for what’s to come. Mostly, I spend my time pacing, wandering the estate, drinking, and thinking of things and people I’ve not thought of in a long time.

  I end up back in my room. I stare at my mandolin on its stand. I’ve had six months of freedom, and what have I done with it? I’ve wanted to be worthy of memory, but all Chouncey of Seven Oaks ever did was die a slave at the hands of the man who owned him. Nothing changed. Just one more promising bard who fell into obscurity. History is littered with them. The churning waters creep a little higher. I take a drink. The whiskey doesn’t taste as good anymore.

  Finally, it edges toward late afternoon. I gather my things, putting on my mail jacket and belting on my weapons. I sling my mandolin across my back. I gather up my scrolls. And I head downstairs. I’m already sweating.

  Arriel’s waiting in the foyer. She’s armored with her mace looped in her belt. She’s holding two vials, each about the size of a shot. She hands them to me as I approach.

  “Here. Take these. Please use them. Don’t argue with me. We can get more.”

  I take them. One’s a vial of reddish liquid. It glows a little. A healing potion. The other’s pale, clear blue. A mana potion to squeeze a few more spells out of your ley line connections. Like my mandolin, I didn’t think mana potions even existed.

  “That’s thoughtful of you. Thanks,” is all I can say. Maybe it’ll save my life. Maybe it’ll be a waste. I hold up the healing potion. “These aren’t strawberry, are they?”

  “They’re apple. The Pelt special orders them for us. Bri doesn’t like the regular ones, either.”

  “Bless her good taste, then.”

  In a nearby decorative bowl on a plinth, I pour out a little from each vial, then top them off with a splash of whiskey. I shake them up, then slip them into a couple slots in my belt.

  She puts a hand on me, fisting her amulet. “Stay still for a moment. Dawn Lord, grant resolve. Dawn Lord, guard against death. Dawn Lor –”

  Warm magic flashes and floods into me, one after the other. I shake her off. “Would you - you’re cheating by this point.”

  She looks away. “I just… I’m worried. I’m trying to keep you alive.”

  I laugh. It’s more like a sob. Maybe I should just leave without them. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  She touches my face briefly. It’s warm. “I believe in you. Even if you don’t. Not many people would do what you’re about to do. Not even me.”

  My stomach is a pit. I look at the amulet around her neck, etched with the likeness of a sun. My throat’s dry. I take a drink. I glance around, and we’re alone. “I suppose you’re the best person to ask. What happens when we die?”

  She examines me. “We go to the gods. Some people follow a specific one, and they go there. Others don’t, and they go to Roslan, the Death Shroud, who accepts all. If Iros wants you to be his Champion, I think he’ll take you. I may be biased, but I think your soul will like it there.”

  “Where’s there?”

  “The celestial plane. I’ve never been, but… I hear it’s wonderful. Perfect. There’s never-ending sunlight and calm waters. Angels. Music.”

  Warm peace trickles through me. I’ve been there before – a room with a heart-shaped bed smelling of citrus and pine on the shores of a never-ending ocean under a pink-draped sunset. It’s something I could only imagine in the depths of that dark cellar, the Pit, the long hall. It’s nothing like that island. I look at my flask and the two sun-shaped stickers there. “Are you gonna bring me back?”

  She gives a sad smile. “I don’t think I’ll need to. But either way, I want your word on something.”

  “What’s that?”

  She puts her hands over mine, holding my flask between us. “You’ll try and stop.”

  It takes the air from me. My stomach buzzes even harder, the churning black waters brimming. Could I stand living with those black waters creeping closer to claiming me eachday? Who would I be without drink all these years later? And yet, there’s a soft glow about her. It’s a relief, a released breath.

  I memorize her face. It’s as breathtaking as ever – soft, curved, and bright with joy on the rare occasion she smiles. I’m one of the few who can make her do that. I’d do anything for her. Even the hardest thing I’ll ever do.

  “Only if you sing a song with me.”

  She gives a small laugh. “Fine.”

  "You think I'm gonna die, don't you."

  She flusters. "That's - of course not. I'd be delighted to fret about singing with you rather than whether I'm going to see your face in the morning."

  My throat clenches. I muster a smile. “Then I swear.”

  She hugs me, then. It’s awkward with armor, but it’s gut-wrenching all the same. I might die today, but right now, it doesn’t seem so bad. More sobs spasm from my chest. I touch her soft hair, smelling of verbena oil. I’ve only just found something that matters, and I’m about to lose it. I’m about to be as alone as I ever was.

  More arms find me, and I feel the baby-soft fur of Weekes’ ear against my cheek. I wrap my arms around both of them.

  Finally, we pull apart. Time’s ticking, and I need to show my face before Irminric makes good on his word. I breathe, putting myself back together. If I show fear, he’ll devour it. I take another drink.

  “Alright,” I say, looking at them both. “Whatever happens, stay out of it. Get out before he can take you. And if you can… don’t let him take me alive.”

  “No,” Weekes says. He straightens up, his ears standing tall. He glimmers darkly with magical armor. “We’re with you until the end.”

  I sigh. I suppose after The Black Tide, they’re not leaving me again. “Then I’m sorry for what you’re about to see.”

  Arriel squeezes my arm. “We’ve seen some terrible things. We’ll be okay.”

  I can hardly form the words. “I meant from me.”

  Weekes takes my hand with his soft paw. Arriel looks at me for a long moment. “Whoever you had to become to survive, that’s okay. We still love you.”

  I take another drink. “Please stop doing that.”

  “No.” She smiles.

  I laugh. So do they. I pull out a spell scroll and unfurl it. I hate these things. It’s like reading music if you squint hard enough. The ink glows pink as I put song to the tenor of the arcane formula.

  “Wait.” It’s Arriel.

  I stop.

  She kisses me hard.

  My stomach spins. She holds me there, lips mashed against mine. Something erupts in my stomach. I kiss her back with everything I’ve got. Something tells me it’ll be the last time.

  She pulls away, red-faced. Weekes only gapes between us. I grab him behind the head, kissing him, too. He stiffens, giving a strangled noise. Then, he relaxes. Arriel laughs with a small snort. I pull away, wiping downy soft fur.

  “As much as I’d love to continue this train of thought, we’ve gotta go.” I sing:

  There’s no greater place that I abhor

  But take me to the Isle of Jor

  The fifth ley line sings from the scroll. A pink, swirling cloud surrounds us. And we’re sucked through blackness.

  We land in the middle of the long hall.

  There’s a crash. A couple raiders go sprawling on the floor. We're met with shouts of surprise, clattering of dishes, and benches turning over. Weapons ring from sheaths. Raiders stare at us.

  The smell of musty wood and ale slaps me in the face.

  The cold sets in immediately. The black waters in my head churn and foam. I keep myself together. This was a mistake of massive proportions. I breathe, releasing Arriel and Weekes. I crumple the blank scroll and chuck it at a nearby raider. I’m shaking. I never wanted to stand here again, no less with my two dearest friends. But here I am. After all this, I’m gonna fucking die on this island.

  Irminric is sitting in his chair at the high table. He stands, looming. I step forward.

  “Good morning to you all,” I say. The commotion quiets immediately. I cross my arms for warmth. “Pardon the abrupt entry. We’ve got quite the event planned for this morning. I threw out a challenge, in case you didn’t hear from our dear friend Ricky.”

  Murmurs and cheers drift over the bustle of breakfast. I glance around. Slaves are peeking out from behind pillars, wide-eyed.

  “I didn’t think you’d show,” Irminric says. “And you brought friends.”

  I sweepingly gesture to Arriel and Weekes. “This here’s my beautiful wife and son. I thought I’d bring them for a tour of the Isles.”

  Irminric grunts. Erson’s sitting beside him. “I’ll make sure they get the best seats we have.”

  Irminric grabs his horn of ale to take a drink. I snap my fingers. He spews piss-flavored ale over the table. I laugh. Predictably, I duck as it sails past me.

  “Ouch,” Weekes mutters. He’s rubbing his baby ear.

  I turn back to Irminric. My blood’s hot. “I’ll kill you for that.”

  He clamps his black claws against the table. It creaks. “Try it.”

  “Oh, don't worry,” I say. I raise my voice, glancing around at the raiders and jarls. “I fully intend to make a spectacle of it. If you want to see what a bard can really do, I’d suggest getting in line for this here fight.” Voices drift up. “This man’s about to be made a fool of. Don’t miss it.”

  “And I’ll make you beg to die,” he growls.

  I cock a brow. He’s stepping in the wrong territory. “That’s all you’ve got? You can’t even shit-talk proper, you witless excuse for dragon’s blood. You piss-tongued idiot. You Vasterholmian rube. You Vasterd. I’d not fuck the black dragon who begat your ancestors. You’d not know licking the business end of a centaur from her face. You’ve got all the creativity of the shit-clinging scales of your asshole. You’re only slightly less charming than a kraken’s cock tentacle. I’d bet you pleased Catherine with all the enthusiasm of licking a papercut. I’d call you a cocksucker, but as your lovely mother can attest, what limp-making fodder for a hard-on you are.”

  Weekes cracks up behind me. Arriel snorts into her hand. A few more laughs trickle from the slaves, then the raiders. Someone roars with it. A few others join. Irminric looks like he’s gonna pop a blood vessel. Or like he’s still a few lines back.

  I turn to the crowd. “We’ve all seen him whack away with a greatsword, but not one of you has seen half of what I can do. And today, you’ve got the honor of watching Seven Oaks versus the Biggest, Blackest Dragon – the fight of the godsdamned century.”

  The floor rumbles. The tables rattle. Arriel and Weekes look at me, smiling.

  I turn back to Irminric. “I’ll see you in the fucking Pit.”

  Then, I turn and push through the doors.

  Arriel and Weekes peel off, following some raiders. I head down an all-too-familiar path. The settlement is the same as it ever was. There’s the slave pens. Crowds of them are gathered against the fences, watching as I go past. Whispers drift. Some of their faces are familiar. Some of them aren’t. They don’t say anything. I’m glad. I can’t think about that right now.

  I enter the familiar chamber, iron bars drawn. The Pit waits beyond.

  Nothing’s changed. Weapons and tools are scattered about. There’s a bench, an armor stand. A single torch lights the room.

  And then a slave enters holding a tray of drinks. I freeze.

  She looks human except for the strange white glow to her eyes. Recognition falls on her face. I swallow glass. The churning in my head crashes louder, like black sea water shattering against a cliff. She’s not human – she’s not even half-angel. She’s a shapeshifter.

  “Would you like refreshments?” she asks. It’s in broken, stilted common.

  “No,” I stammer. I’m starting to shake again. I switch over to fey. “You can put that down. I don’t need it. It’s Ren, right?”

  She blinks, setting the tray on a nearby table. Relief creeps into her voice while she speaks in fey. “Yes. I didn’t… think you remembered me.” I remember everything. I’ve just been trying not to. She glances around. We’re alone. “Thank you for your help. I haven’t shifted at all. They don’t know.”

  “Good,” I say. “Keep it that way. Have you been alright here?”

  She pauses, a blank look flashing across her eyes, then nods.

  Nobody’s ever alright here.

  “I asked about you,” she says, wringing her hands. “There were a lot of stories. They said you were killing slavers in the Pit and winning. I watched a few times. You took so much, but it didn’t break you. You even helped some of us. And you wrote that song about… him.” Her words pick up pace. We don’t have much more time. “I heard when you left. We all did. They tried to keep it from us, but some of the slaves in the kitchens overheard. There was an uprising on For. Some of the others tried to escape, too. You showed that it was possible. He tried to make sure nobody talked about you, but… we all remember the bard of Seven Oaks.”

  I’m frozen to my spot. I take a long drink. The room is starting to spin. A broken laugh slips out. “If you all knew, then why didn’t you help me?”

  Her chin trembles. “We needed you to help us.”

  I look away. Black waters crash in my head, splaying water over the brim. It’s rising fast. I can’t stay here. I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life. I’ll be dead in less than ten minutes. I’m gonna get myself killed, and Weekes and Arriel are gonna have to watch. What’s Irminric gonna do to them?

  The torch winks.

  I look at it. A soft, friendly voice whispers in my memory. Whenever you can see, there I am. And you’ll find you’re not alone.

  Warmth courses through me. Not angry heat, but calming, nurturing light. I look through the bars. The Pit lies beyond. There’s light there. Maybe I didn’t see it all those years. Maybe that’s because I needed to look for it. Or maybe because it needed to come from me. Maybe it already has.

  We all remember the bard of Seven Oaks.

  Something clicks into place. If not me, then who’s gonna do this? I breathe, and standing here feels like the rightest thing I’ve ever done. I’ve got Irminric so mad and stupid that he’s willing to fight me. I’m the only person with half a hope of winning. I look back at Ren, and there’s a familiar haunted look in her glowing eyes. We’ve both seen the horrors of this place. Maybe she feels the churning, too. Maybe she needs light. Maybe they all do. And maybe that’s what I am: a Champion.

  I look her in the eye. “You’re gonna go home today.”

  Her face falters. “Really?”

  “I swear it.”

  I tuck my flask away, my jaw rigid. There’s one thing I've not told Arriel and Weekes. It’s been so far out of reach that I’ve not bothered to think of it. But if I succeed here, I can spread more light and break more chains than anyone here could hope for.

  Because if I kill Irminric, I’ll be the Warchief of the Byrian Isles.

  I pull a scroll from my chain jacket. I unroll it and hold it up. “Here. Hold this. Just like that.”

  She nods eagerly and takes it. I bring my mandolin around, clearing my throat. I play a few chords, dancing around the humming song of the seventh ley line. I finger it from the scroll in front of me, reading from the strange, arcane scribing, translating it into musical notation. It’s in Lespira’s neat wizarding hand. I play, pushing the neck and warping the sound, pink magic swirling from the scroll. It settles over my vision like a lens. I look around. The torch sputters and then does it again in real time.

  The scribing on the scroll fades. “You’re too kind, thank you,” I say. “Keep that. Have yourself a souvenir.”

  She smiles, rolling it up and clutching it.

  Cheering and stomping drift from the Pit outside. It’s almost time. I approach the iron bars, checking my weapons. I close my eyes, reaching deep down. I brush near my connection to the seventh ley line, feeling its harmonics hum and sing – the final piece of the chorus, the scale of the world. It plunges downward into the black, churning waters rising ever higher. I pause. Just underneath, I can feel the massive swell of roiling pink magic, the press of the eighth ley line beyond an invisible plane. It churns with immense power. It curls my stomach.

  I open my eyes. I look at the torch nearby. “Are you there?” I ask quietly.

  It winks.

  I smile. The iron gates open. And I step into the light.

  I’ve never seen so many people crammed into the arena. They’re practically stacked two deep. Roars greet me. The ground rumbles. I spin, looking around. The packed dirt beneath my feet is too familiar. It twists my stomach. I can’t think about it right now. Something is coursing through my blood. Inspiration, or maybe something more. Something divine.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Irminric is on the other side of the Pit. He’s wearing hulking plate armor, his greatsword thrust into the ground next to him, his claw hands folded over it. A new gauntlet is fitted over one hand. It glimmers faintly with magic.

  I spot Arriel and Weekes. They’re sitting on the Warlord’s platform with a view of the whole field, holding hands. Erson’s standing nearby with some jarls and raiders. I can’t think about them right now. They don’t know the half of what happened here. They’re about to find out. But at least this is the last time I’ll ever have to do this.

  I walk along the pit wall, beckoning the cheers onward. The crowd crashes like waves. They’re incensed, but there’s something breathless about them. They’re waiting.

  Deep down, I find something doused under countless shots of whiskey. I pick it up, dusting it off. I breathe. I straighten up and approach the center of the pit.

  I slowly raise my arms as the cheers grow louder. I stalk around, looking at them all. I let them go on for an electric moment. I point at one side. It’s a crack of thunder.

  “Seven!”

  I point at the other.

  “Oaks!”

  I do it again, beckoning them on. They roar. Irminric scowls. I draw my swords, flipping them and turning them in my hands. He heaves up his greatsword, stalking toward me. I hold my blades out, spinning slowly so they all get a look. The crowd bellows.

  “Fuck me,” I say quietly.

  Pink flame whooshes from my sword.

  Irminric falters. The crowd gasps. I find my footing. And I take my chance.

  I sprint, closing the gap. I see myself doing it seconds before reality. I feint right and leap left, spinning. I slice as I land. It glances off armor. I slash again. Flame sizzles with blood. I catch him between plates. I duck. His greatsword hums overhead. I roll out of the way.

  I step back, putting distance between us. “Could you not wash your ass first?” I call.

  He roars. He holds up his right hand, his glove beginning to glow with magic. Fire crackles from the palm. Seconds ahead, I see it blast out bolts of fire.

  I throw up my middle finger, pumping magic behind it. The flame fizzles with a puff of pink, shaping into a heart. I move another finger, and it makes a sad horn noise. Laughter ripples from the crowd.

  He looks at the gauntlet, growls, and comes at me with his greatsword.

  He slashes four times. It's blindingly fast. I see them coming seconds before. I dodge and duck. Too late, one rakes against my calf. I stumble. Blood is sucked into the sword.

  The last swing comes at me. There’s no avoiding it.

  I cross my blades, bracing. I slam magic forward.

  With a bright pink flash, his greatsword cracks into a magical wall. It sizzles with energy. He pauses. I smile. I owe Lespira for teaching me this one.

  I retaliate, slashing and thrusting. I meet plate, then draw blood from his elbow. My flaming sword sizzles. I scratch across his snout. I spin away from another swing. I dance backward, putting distance between us again. My blood’s throbbing. I’m covered in sweat already.

  “You don’t look like you’re having fun,” I call. I flip and sheath my swords, bringing my mandolin around. “Maybe loosen up a bit.”

  I riff a bit of “The Biggest, Blackest Dragon,” zinging a metaphorical finger along a connection. I spin and point at his feet. Pink magic pulses in front of his dark eyes. He stops.

  Then, his foot starts tapping. Both feet. He shakes his hips, raises his arms. His tail swings. He dives fully into it. I keep playing. I shuffle over next to him, following along. We dance in tandem. It’s easy enough when I see it a few seconds in advance. Laughter douses like a monsoon. The crowd begins singing along. He roars at me. I sling my mandolin back, letting them keep it up. I sweep my arms up. They stomp in time.

  Then, I unravel my whip.

  I hold it up as I walk in a small circle. I gesture with it. The crowd goes wild. Irminric bends over, shaking his spiky dragon ass.

  I turn and light a match on it.

  The crack splits two islands over. He howls, straightening and clutching his ass. That shook him out of it. He grabs his greatsword, barreling toward me.

  I dive out of the fucking way. I roll, scrambling to my feet. I flick the whip out, snapping against his shin. I spin and do it again, hitting him in the neck. He grunts. I aim for his wrist. He bats it out of the way. The greatsword sails past me, hitting dirt. It comes at me again. I cross my arms, throwing magic into it. His greatsword meets a wall. Pink magic flashes like sparks, brighter this time. He blinks, blinded for a split second. Then, he comes at me again.

  Steel rakes across my mail. I gasp. Blackness pulses through me. Blood pours from my chest, sucked into the blade. I stumble backward.

  I’m starting to feel it - burning, throbbing pain pushing past the numbness. I clutch myself. I’ve barely scratched him. He comes at me again. I dodge. I slip around him. I snap the whip against his tail. He growls. It snaps inches from his face, sending him backward.

  I drape the whip over my shoulder, bringing my mandolin around. I strum the three chords. A pink, magical swirl puffs. I’m invisible.

  He stops. I creep away, the roar of the crowd concealing my movements. If I’m not careful, he’ll see my footprints.

  “Coward!” he roars, whirling.

  I’ve bought myself a few moments. I clutch the gash across my torso. Warm wetness is seeping down my front. I can’t think about it. Chundering on dirt will certainly break the illusion. I sneak around to his other side. I line up, seeing it seconds before in my magical vision.

  I quietly draw a shortsword. I snake the whip out, coiling it around his ankle. I pull.

  He splays facedown in a puff of dirt.

  Laughter bursts from the crowd. The invisibility fades. I fly toward him, ready to thrust. He rolls. I meet his boot.

  My breath leaves me. I grunt, hitting the ground. He’s on his feet. His boot hits me again. Something cracks.

  I spin away, shuffling to my feet. I don’t wait. I fly at him again, leaping.

  I land a blade in his side, between two plates. He hisses and grabs me. He throws his spiky head forward. Stars explode in my vision. I’m stunned. I shake it away. He comes at me again. I throw magic forward. A bright, pink flash explodes in front of his face. He gives a yelp, backing away. A few seconds into the future, I see my opening.

  I kick between his legs.

  He barely winces. He grabs a fistful of my mail, chucking me to the ground. My sword comes with me. I gasp, tasting blood. I can’t look at Arriel and Weekes right now. It’s not over yet.

  He heaves violently, stepping back. He snarls.

  “You know,” I say breathlessly, staggering to my feet. I coil up my whip and put it back. I gesture with my shortsword. “Whatever you’ve got down there, that’s alright. You seem happier as a man, and that’s what’s important.”

  “Keep babbling, if that’s what keeps you from running scared,” he growls. He grabs his greatsword from where it’s stabbed into the dirt.

  “Running scared, huh?” I take the health potion from my belt, popping the cork and throwing the red liquid down my throat. I grit my teeth. It’s sweet apple mixed with whiskey – not ideal, but it’s a better flavor than dead. Warmth courses through me, sealing things up a little. I chuck the vial over my shoulder into the crowd. Someone excitedly snatches it up. “Let’s try that, then.”

  My head’s starting to blur. I’m running low on magic. I hum and point with my blade, teasing a connection. Pink flashes in front of his face. He stops. He gasps, something familiar appearing in the angle of his draconic features.

  Fear.

  The greatsword tumbles from his claw hands. He turns, high-tailing it away from me.

  The crowd roars with laughter. Half of them boo him. I turn and shrug at them. “What’s the ruling on a forfeit?”

  They respond in so few words that there’s no such thing. I take a second to breathe. Then, I stumble to his greatsword. I grasp a ley line, then clear my throat and sing:

  Get rid of this cursèd sword

  Before it’s stuck within me, gored

  It swirls away with pink magic, hopefully clattering in front of some bewildered guards at the Ronchellard estate.

  I lean against my knees. I’m exhausted and starting to get dizzy. I need to end this soon. I toss down the mana potion, too. It tastes a little better than the other one. Mana’s vaguely sugar-flavored. There’s the sharp bitter of whiskey on the back end. My head clears a bit. I point, wind up, and lob the empty vial across the arena. People dive to catch it. I bring the mandolin around, strumming the three chords for healing. Things seal a little more. I wince, cracking my neck and drawing my other sword.

  It’s about that time Irminric returns from where he was huddled against the Pit wall. He’s certainly not scared anymore. In fact, he's ravening. I take a low stance with my blades, readying as he hulks toward me. Let’s see how he does with no weapon.

  He bellows, lunging.

  I dodge out of the way, slashing across plate. I stab the base of his tail. Blood sprays the dirt. I can taste sweat. I duck as he swings razor-sharp claws. Another swing comes at me, seconds before it actually does. I cross my swords. Bright, pink light flares in his face. He swings wide, stumbling back and covering his eyes.

  Then, he thunders.

  Veins pop. I’ve never seen him like this. He comes at me, staggeringly fast. He punches, meeting the magical wall of my spell. He punches again. It cracks through. Numbness explodes in my face. He lands another swing in my gut. Chainmail meets the gashed meat of my torso. White stars swim in my vision. I gasp.

  “Smells worse over here than a dozen rotten eggs –”

  Another fist cracks into me.

  He grabs me around the neck. His thick hand vices. Four more punches come. I can see them seconds ahead, but there’s nothing I can do. Blood sprays the dirt. Maybe this is it. He doesn’t even need a weapon to kill me. I feebly stab. He bats my sword away. I slam face-first onto the ground.

  His boot comes at me. Then there’s nothing.

  But then, there is. Gold light swims behind my eyelids. I feel something like a soft touch on my chest, a jolt through my stuttering heart. I spasm. The sound of the arena trickles back in. I crack open my eyes. I can barely see.

  There’s only darkness and dirt. Blood’s pooling beneath me. It smells warm and metallic. I can hardly breathe. My chest is heavy. Something’s broken. The crowd buzzes and roars. I gasp, swallowing blood. I’m inches away from dying. I don’t want Arriel and Weekes to see this.

  With every ounce of strength I’ve got left, I roll over.

  Sunlight caresses overhead. It's searing gold against the endless warm blue of the sky. I squint. I’ve laid here a dozen times, usually just before someone drags me off to that cellar. But now I’m gonna die in front of an arena full of cheering people, just like I thought I would the first time.

  There was no sunlight then. Or maybe there was, and I just didn’t see it.

  “Are you there?” I croak.

  I close my eyes as warmth washes over my face. A cool breeze stirs me. It'd be easy enough to lie here and let it happen. I'd go somewhere much better than this. But there's thousands of slaves who'll not be so lucky.

  Then comes the sound of heavy footsteps. Irminric’s spiky black face appears, hulking over me. He snarls. He hunches like a puking cat and opens his maw, slavering acid spit beginning to gather and drip.

  I laugh. I cackle. I wheeze. In my magical vision, I see the scene play out seconds ahead.

  I lift a heavy hand and scratch underneath my eye. I grab the nearest magical connection – a fistful and far more than a simple charm. The mandolin electrifies. “Hang on. I’ve gotta take a piss first.”

  He pauses. His face goes blank. Pink glows in front of his eyes. And it stays.

  In my mind, a tether is snapped into place, rigid and unbreakable. I close my eyes and feel along it. It brings me to a pink, heart-shaped door. I enter, finding a black, empty space. I glance around. I hear incensed roaring, hissing, screeching, sobbing. I turn. Behind pink bars is locked Irminric, small, naked, and dirty. He throws himself against the impenetrable magic, slavering. I turn, seeing a scene before me. I step toward it – into it.

  And suddenly I’m looking down at myself.

  I’m a bloody, pulpy mess in the dirt, pink glowing over my eyes, too. I glance around. The crowd stomps and rattles the ground, waiting for my death. I turn, looking down. I see black claws, scaly skin, plate armor. I’m huge and hulking. I swish my tail around.

  “Fuck me,” I rumble. It comes from my unfamiliar maw.

  I recoil back into myself, gasping. I’m suddenly looking back up at him. Pink still hovers over his eyes. He stands blankly. I smile.

  “Would you mind helping me up?”

  He hoists me to my feet. He steadies me, brushing dirt off.

  “Thanks,” I say, reeling.

  He doesn’t respond.

  I pat his pauldron. “Go run over there.”

  He trots ten feet away.

  “Spin in circles.”

  He does it. I laugh. My rib splits. I sound mad. The rest of the audience hesitantly joins in.

  “Now stop.”

  He stops, swirling. The crowd quiets, trying to piece together what’s going on.

  “Tell me something useful.”

  He straightens, black eyes glowing pink. He growls. “Wolves hunt in packs.”

  “I said useful. Come back here. On your knees.”

  He trots back over, kneeling in front of me, his face still blank. I’ve only got moments left to do what I need to. The crowd quiets, drifting with murmurs and whispers.

  I close my eyes, feeling the presence of the sunlight overhead. It’s a breath of fresh air. In my mind, I see flashes of Arriel’s laughing face, Weekes’ big, adoring eyes and his stupid hairless baby ear. They came all the way back to hell with me. They see the full reality of this place now. I wish they didn’t have to. I wish places like this didn’t exist. I wish people like Irminric didn’t exist.

  Black water churns in my chest, in my head. My breath comes quicker. If I lose here, Irminric will break them. The thought of them ending up like me sends me shaking. Nobody should die alone at the bottom of the black ocean. There should be only light and life and music in the world, not this. Not an arena full of people cheering for my death.

  The black waters rush upward. I sob. I can’t keep them back anymore. There’s no drink in the world that’ll make me forget. I see their faces again, too vibrant to bear: a human, skin bubbling with black acid; a wood elf with flaming, scorched hair; a scared half-angel shapeshifter with glowing eyes; a young orange catfolk named Keo about to die alone. I smell the ale on Catherine’s breath, the burning skin on my ankle. I feel the sting of Torm’s whip, the smack of Erson’s hand, the clenching of Irminric’s fist around my throat. I breathe the musty, dark air of the cellar. It's the shaking, the crying, the cold nights spent aching for anyone to help. The anger – always the anger. The breaking, the fraying, the lost time – the five years stuck where I can’t wander, where I’ll be forgotten, cast away as just another slave, where I never mattered except to someone who keeps me as a prized possession. And none of it’ll ever go away.

  In fact, it's here more than ever before.

  My throat poises around raw screams. The black water explodes, crashing and rushing like a swelling tide, a flood, against rocky crags. I can’t stop it. It’s too big for me. Some part of me died at the bottom of the black ocean, cold, alone, and with no hope of ever seeing light again. That’s as much as Irminric deserves. I can’t make it go away, but I can make him go away.

  I wish it more than anything.

  A scream rips from my throat. I clench a hand around his spiky jaw. It cuts my palm. I’m inches from his blank face. My body locks up. Sweat coats me. I scream with all my guts, black water spewing to the surface and beyond. I suck in breath.

  And deep inside, I plunge into the rising waters. I push past the darkness and follow it to the black depths. There, I find the thrumming connection to the seventh ley line. I grasp it with both hands. And I sing its song.

  Immense, godly magic pulses. I’m electrified. I open my eyes, and I see only pink.

  Magic sweeps, explodes from me. I scream, and my voice distorts, breaking and roaring. A song drifts above it, high and keening. Wind whips through the arena. Banners snap. The clouds darken, except for a single ray of light. The ground shakes. My hair stands on end, my skin alit. I'm no longer breathing, nearly hovering with power. We’re in the eye of a pink storm, an immense pink dome, and the pulsing, swirling brush of the eighth ley line sweeps around me – from me. Whispers of the tone, the world's song, drift through – it’s amplified, an octave of each ley line below it, like a choir carrying a single chord. Its overtone is a sound that shouldn’t exist.

  The pink over his eyes flickers and vanishes. The charm fades. He blinks, something like pure terror on his face, pink reflected in the moisture of his black eyes.

  The world tears behind him.

  Like jagged lightning, pink light snakes through the electric air. A heart rips into a gaping, black chasm. Screams of terror drift on the whipping wind. Through the portal, blackness is cut by bubbles. There’s a glimpse of a massive, glistening eye, of tentacles, of suckers. Water spills and splashes onto the dirt. The smell of saltwater pierces. An otherworldly, hair-raising, keening groan drifts from the crack - the blackest, most terrifying and solitary depths in the world, never-ending.

  The water plane.

  He’s tugged from my grasp. Pink tendrils coil around him. All I have to do is let go. He clenches my forearm, claws dug in. His face pleads.

  “Wait. Please.”

  I gasp and heave. The song continues, heavenly, angelic. It’s one of the most beautiful and impossible sounds I’ve ever heard. My face is utterly wet. Raw pink magic swirls around us. My voice distorts with the weight of the seventh ley line behind it. I speak into his bones. “Too late. Die and shit yourself, slaver.”

  His black eyes widen. I spit a wad of blood on his snout. And then I let go.

  He’s wrenched toward the split in the fabric of the world. He claws at the dirt. He distorts and stretches. And then with a popping sound, he’s shunted into utter darkness.

  The portal laces closed with pink magic. It vanishes. And then it’s quiet.

  In fact, it’s dead silent. It’s a mercy. I can’t see anything beyond the whipping pink dome around me. I’m exhausted. I can hardly stand anymore. I look down, and I’m still bleeding. It’s so much blood, thick and dark, pumping weakly. The world spins. My stomach churns. Darkness presses the edges of my vision. I need Arriel, and soon, or all this is gonna be for nothing.

  I collapse. Something catches me.

  I fall into a familiar figure. I see a beautiful white robe laced with gold, underneath which is smooth, colorless, glowing skin. It’s a sculpted, genderless, alien body. Warm light caresses me. A hand strokes my back, my neck, my hair.

  A soft voice drifts through the silence. It twirls around me. “It’s over. He’s breathed his last.”

  “Am I dead?” I rasp.

  “No. In fact, you have much more living to do. You’ve done well, and I’m proud of you. I think you’ve begun to see what I mean. I need someone to spread my light. And you’ve spread it more widely and deeply than any other. If you want this life, I’ll give it to you.”

  “I can’t keep doing this,” I say. More sobs well in my throat. I don’t want to drink anymore.

  “You can. It won’t be easy. But you won’t be alone.”

  Iros holds me tighter. Warmth pulses through me. Everything knits and snaps back together. I let out a heavy groan, sagging into him. It’s like the softest bed I’ve ever laid on.

  “Now, your friends are waiting. You have more chains to break. Here.”

  He pulls away from me. I can stand on my own now. He holds out a hand. The swirling pink magic condenses in front of him, crackling. It forms into a small object – a dragon scale. It’s black, about the size of the end of my thumb. It floats over to me. It's etched with a sun symbol.

  “Where you have this, you have my power.” Within his glowing face, there’s a faint smile. “Don’t cause too much trouble with it.”

  And then he vanishes.

  The pink magic dissipates. It puffs into nothingness. Sunlight comes back, the dark clouds clearing. A soft breeze drifts through, carrying the sound of gulls and faint waves. The arena appears again. I’m standing exactly where I was. I glance around. People are cowering behind chairs and benches, thrown to the ground. They look up, reappearing. A slave huddles at the edge of the Pit, hand over mouth. Arriel and Weekes are standing, wide-eyed, watching from the edge of the platform.

  I glance down at the black scale in my hand. It sheens pink as I turn it.

  I grab my mandolin from my back, gathering myself. I strum a few chords, loud and bright. It rings and resounds with the weight of the pick behind it. Hovering my fingers over the strings, I pluck some harmonics.

  An illusion wafts into existence. The sound of a roaring crowd drifts. Over it trickles the melody of “The Biggest, Blackest Dragon.” Pink fireworks crackle and pop overhead.

  I snap my fingers. The scale vanishes into my chest pocket. I spread my arms and bow.

  And the arena erupts.

  I trot and climb the wall, hoisting myself into the arena seats. I leap them two at a time toward Arriel and Weekes. Raiders scatter. I kick one out of the way. I pull myself onto the platform and wrap them both in a hug.

  It’s over. I survived.

  Weekes shakes. Arriel nearly crushes me. “Are you okay?” she asks, feeling around. “Dawn Lord, mend this wound.”

  More warm light seeps into me. I don’t need it, but it’s pleasant anyway. “I’m fine. What about you?”

  “We’re okay,” Weekes says. “We were about to go help, but…”

  I pull away. Arriel still clutches my arm. She looks at me, warm blue eyes searching. “What did you do?”

  I open my mouth, not sure how to begin explaining that. What did I do?

  “Seven Oaks.”

  I turn. It’s Erson. His old half-elven face is the last thing I want to see right now. I hope to the gods I don’t have to fight him, too.

  I cross my arms. The cold’s seeping back in. “That’s Warchief.”

  Arriel and Weekes gape at me.

  Erson nods. “Noted. What’s the order of business here?”

  I squint, looking at him. I cock my head. “I’m surprised to hear you asking that. All those years of knocking me around are catching up quick, aren't they?”

  He pauses, looking like he’s swallowing vinegar. “I’m sorry. I’m willing to help however you need. I’ll remain second-in-command if you’ll have me.”

  “Deference is a good look on you. Let’s put it to the test –”

  A jarl, Nickolaj, steps forward. He’s human - tall, lanky, and bearded with an ashy brown top knot. “Hang on. I challenge the Warchie –”

  A crackling arrow thrums past my shoulder. It bores into his chest with a spray of blood, taking him off the platform. He flies for a few seconds before cracking onto the Pit wall with a crunch. He doesn’t move.

  I glance at the other jarls. “Any other challengers?”

  Throst steps forward. “Me. That wasn’t legal. It wasn’t in the Pit.”

  “Disperse!”

  With a breezy pop, he appears on the pit floor.

  “Dawn Lord, smite my enemies!”

  The heavens open up. A roaring column of gold fire spews down with the sound of a choir. Only a smoking black char is left on the ground.

  I glance at the jarls again. They shuffle and don’t look at me.

  “Anyway,” I say. I turn to Erson, stepping closer. “I’ll only say this once, so listen close, or a broken nose is gonna be the least of your concerns. By the end of today, you’re gonna ready every ship we’ve got on every Isle. You’re gonna put every slave we have on them. And you’re gonna see that every one is sent home, wherever they want to go and with whatever supplies they need.” I draw a shortsword. It’s still got Irminric’s blood on it. Erson stiffens. I point it at his neck. “And they’re gonna be unharmed.”

  He doesn’t move. “Respectfully, that’s going to –”

  “I've said it once.”

  He shuts up.

  I back away, looking at the jarls. “Go on.” They look to Erson, hesitating.

  I sleight a finger. I glow pink. They screech, tumbling over chairs to get away. Erson backs up, hands out. “Alright. You made your point. We’re not doing that anymore. Honestly, it’s for the best. It’ll be hard, but –”

  “The only thing hard right now is me at the prospect of punting your geriatric head off a cliff!” I bellow. “Get these slaves the fuck out of here.”

  The arena falls dead silent, wind whispering through. He spins, hustling off.

  I turn back to Arriel and Weekes. “I knew this would be a headache, but fuck me.”

  Heat whooshes down my leg.

  Pink flame licks up my sword. Weekes screeches. I spasm, dropping it. The flames vanish. Arriel pats me out.

  I sheathe it. Nobody’s looking at me. I take a long swig from my flask. I pause. There’s a third pink, sun-shaped sticker on it. I smile.

  “Cheeks, I hope you’ve got a bag. Let’s go get your gold.”

  I take them back to the long hall. People stare as I walk by, if they’re not scuttling out of the way. We once again pass slave pens. Nobody is pressed against the fence this time – from inside, I hear bustling activity and voices. People are packing. I can only imagine what they’re feeling. Hopefully, something far better than what I felt, stepping on the mainland again.

  Arriel nudges me, taking my hand. Weekes takes my other one. She smiles like she knows something.

  I take them inside the long hall where breakfast cleanup has been abandoned. I don’t hear any slaves inside the kitchens. The ovens can burn this place down for all I care. I take Arriel and Weekes downstairs to the entrance to the vault. A few hulking raiders are guarding it. They straighten and cross their weapons as I approach.

  “Let me in,” I say.

  One narrows his eyes. It's Slothi - he’s a giant orc. “Not without permission from the Warchief.”

  I gesture to myself with my flask. “You heard about the challenge, right? Which one of us is clearly alive right now?”

  He pauses for a second, then nods. “That makes sense.”

  I clap him on his massive shoulder. It's like slapping a wall. “Good we’re not paying you to think. On that note, how much are we paying you?”

  The raiders look at each other. “Two copper.”

  “An hour?”

  “A day.”

  “A day?” I sputter. I turn to Arriel. “How much do you pay your servants?”

  “Five copper. Per hour.”

  “Sweet fucking hells. I’ve got work to do.”

  I grab my mandolin and strum a few chords. A pink square appears, and I drag it to the stone door. It opens. We step through. The raiders turn, staring. I close it behind us.

  I snap my fingers, and the torches light up.

  It’s odd seeing the vault from this angle. It’s piled high with coins and magical items, artwork, decorative armor and weapons, and all manner of stolen valuables. It churns my stomach. This is disgusting. It’s been sitting here for years, useful for nothing but wetting the dreams of a single black dragonkin.

  “Alright,” I say. “Twenty thousand, was it?”

  Weekes shrugs. “I mean, yeah. But I don’t really need that much. I think it’ll go to better use here.”

  “What about your patron daddy?”

  “I don’t know. I think maybe the real bounty was the friends I made along the way.”

  “Oh, fuck off. You’re taking five thousand, or I’m gonna deposit it in the bank between your cheeks.”

  He smiles. “Thanks. I’d like to buy a house and have something to live on comfortably. You know, for Rose and me.”

  Arriel gives a strained-looking smile, nudging Weekes. I think it’s supposed to be her looking happy for him, but she’s off by a mile. I nod. “Then let’s get you set up.”

  I wade through piles of coins, scooping them up while Weekes counts them out. I lay illusions over his neat stacks of ten, making him have to start over. I find a small wooden box with a couple seashells in it. They hum with magic – something similar to what Arriel’s able to do, talking with people over long distances. She goes to the other side of the room and talks to me through it. I pocket one and leave the other. I spot a bag sitting on a dark wood table and grab it. It’s a small, plain-looking drawstring bag about the size of a loaf of bread. It should be big enough. I open it up and bring it over. I stop. There’s no bottom to it. It’s just black.

  I reach in, up to my shoulder. There’s nothing.

  I tip it over. More coins cascade out, wiping out the neat piles Weekes was making. He huffs. A couple potions clatter to the floor, too.

  “Well, here’s this,” I say, offering the bag to him.

  “Wait,” Arriel says. “Maybe you should keep it, Chouncey.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s yours now. We can get one for Weekes back in Carthesia.” She turns to Weekes. “You can put your gold in here for now.”

  She pulls the black metal coin from her purse. She goes over to a wall, flicking it against the stone. It sticks to the stone and opens into a tunnel. I glance in, and it’s the same as before.

  “You’ve fucked in there, haven’t you.”

  Her face goes red. “Of course not.”

  I glance at Weekes, and he laughs.

  We chuck his money in the magical hole. I put my things in my new bag, then scrape a few handfuls of coin inside, adding to what I earned from my show the other night. It’s close to ten thousand gold – an unimaginable sum, even now. I could live off that for the rest of my life and then some. I have no idea if Irminric kept a bookkeeper, but I’ll need to get one soon.

  I feel like lead by the time we’re done. It’s creeping toward the middle of the night back in Carthesia. My head’s muddled, and I can hardly stand talking right now, no less singing or making music. Grabbing a ley line might leave me on the floor. I can’t teleport us back.

  I look at the solid stone door. Which means I can’t make a hole spell, either.

  “Fuck me.”

  “What?” Weekes asks.

  I sigh. “Lady Arriel, could you take us back?”

  She gives me a knowing look. I wish she wouldn’t. “Yes, I can. Dawn Lord, bring us to your light.”

  And we’re whisked away.