CRACK.

Gray fell flat on his back, winded and staring hazily up at an overcast sky. The sweet smell of grass drifted over him. Dew soaked through his clothes, as the group jostled and righted themselves.

They'd landed on a familiar hilltop. There was a hamlet in the distance, with gently rising smoke and the livestock dotting the fields nearby.

North, but not north enough. A halfway point.

Someone was shouting.

The sound mixed with Gray's fluttering heartbeat, tapping against his ears.

'Brown, run to town, alert them, bring back help, we'll leave the injured here. Pickering, stay with Conor Griffin, there. Emwell, with the princess - CODDER, SUPPORT THE KING, KEEP HIM BREATHING …'

Gray drew in a breath. Again. Filled his lungs. He needed to pull himself together. Gods. He needed to focus, he needed to understand, decide what the hell he should do.

But his mind wasn't cooperating. Thoughts wouldn't link.

Killian's clipped voice washed over him.

'I don't need to tell you, soldiers, that is a very dangerous and powerful dark sorcerer, and you don't lift your eyes from him for one moment, you don't allow him to gain consciousness, and you be on high alert for incoming threats. You can bet Wilde is keeping tabs on his protege, he'll be coming to get him at some point. You keep him housed and guarded separately to the king …'

Killian was yanking Gray up to sit, and clapping a calloused palm to his cheek. 'You got something here to help Sorena, hm? What's on your belt? Can you tell me?'

Gray glanced down blindly. Fumbled. 'Myrtle essence. Will help her. Here.'

Killian took the myrtle essence from Gray's fingers and crouched in front of a hunched Sorena. Beyond him, Pickering - sweat-soaked and bloodied - was leaning over Conor.

Digging his fingers through the grass and into damp soil, Gray closed his eyes. They were still aching, still fogged, like his mind - it was moving too slow, refusing to cooperate, but he needed it to, he needed to think-

'What else you got there, kid? What's this?'

Gray started. Killian was back, pale and serious, and pointing at Gray's belt.

'Axe,' said Gray hoarsely. Confused.

'This?'

'Dagger.'

'And this?'

It was the powdered griffin's claw. Gray made himself meet Killian's dark and shuttered stare. The battle scars and hard lines smeared with dust. The brutal head wound that was still bleeding and making Killian white underneath the mess. Tried to say, Killian, I'm fine. I know the name of things. We need to be leaving for Krydon immediately. Too much time has passed already.

Gray's gaze slid back over to where Conor lay on the grass, under the watchful gaze of Pickering. His tall, lean form was laid out carefully, his chest falling and rising. His fur-detailed shirt and boots were blackened with ash. Wrecked. Even covered in sweat and dust, even unconscious, Conor's face was imperious. There was something about the line of his jaw, the set of his mouth, and the dominating eyebrows that warned Gray away.

'What is this, hm?' said Killian, softly, tapping to get Gray's attention.

'Griffin's claw,' mumbled Gray. He kept his gaze steadfastly on Conor. The fluttering of his pulse was getting stronger.

Little brother.

Killian would not be checking Gray with his brow so furrowed, he'd not be making sure his fingers and toes worked, that he could say his name, make a fist, that his breath was steady, if he knew.

Gray could run. He could disappear.

That would probably be safest.

Not safe, by a long shot.

But safest.

But, it would mean leaving Krydon, leaving the thing that killed Alistair, leave it roaming, unchecked.

'Did I - I lost the wand.'

'I've got your wand,' said Killian, sitting back on his heels. 'I'll just slip it into your pocket, careful now-'

'I don't - want it. I just, I was worried it-' Gray's voice broke. He didn't want the wand anywhere near him. The effects of the Modig amulet lingered, but he couldn't believe what he'd done. The thirst for the Modig amulet was still there, fighting with the absolute horror at the destruction that had come exploding out of Gray.

'You - hold onto it,' said Gray.

Killian surveyed him, motionless. 'All right. I'll keep it for now, we don't want you blasting through to the world's core, do we? Who knew scrawny orphans could pack such a punch.'

Killian was trying to catch Gray's gaze, trying to smile.

Gray couldn't do it. It was easier to keep staring at Conor.

'You,' said Killian. 'You were very good.'

This was such a lie. Gray had blasted the place apart, Lunn had gotten killed, he'd had a horribly embarrassing fight with Baldwin, he'd failed to pull Conor away from it all. He frowned at Conor, suddenly and irrationally angry, wishing he had enough control over his tongue to tell Killian to stop trying to make him feel better. Killian hadn't even been conscious for any of it.

'Stand up for me, hm?'

Gray climbed woodenly to his feet.

'You can still walk?' said Killian brusquely. 'Run?'

He nodded.

'Recite the route you're following in Krydon.'

Gray worked his dry tongue. Made himself keep talking. 'Ardel - Ardel street. Tailor lane …'

'Keep going, kid, I don't want you sitting there in a daze, all right? Pickering, meet Brown returning there. You're to accompany him with the injured. I want these townsfolk fully informed of the events, they need to be prepared. Keep Conor Griffin sedated and under full watch at all times, you hear me? You got rope - tie his hands. Gag him, too.'

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'Yes, Major.'

'Wing, help them with Pruitt. You're to personally stand guard over the king. CODDER, QUICKLY THERE, REVIVE ANOTHER MAGE, NOW …'

There was a crowd of people running over from the hamlet, towards them. Gray shut his eyes again. Muttered the street names of his Krydon route. Fatigue hammered at him. It was banging at his skin, building up. Harder.

Someone was tugging at Gray's belt, and he opened his eyes to see Sorena pulling the dagger and the bag of chalk from his assortment. Her mouth was pressed hard together, her shoulders tense.

Gray pulled free one of the knives, and offered it to her, handle side up.

She snatched it. 'You have food?' Her voice, usually so precise and cold, wavered.

Gray shook his head.

'Gods.' She pressed her lips together again. 'What about more myrtle essence? Urkskin is coming round. Roseheart, too.'

'I - don't,' said Gray. 'You can have whatever you want. Take anything.'

Sorena glanced at him, for the first time. Her bright hazel gaze was not cold. It was red rimmed. Stark. Horribly angry.

'H-here,' mumbled Gray immediately, sifting through the bottles and powders, and pressing one into her hands. 'This - I think this is some kind of healing potion. Stamina. Take the water flask. And your - your father's scarf. He'd want you wearing it - protecting you …'

He was clumsily tying the scarf around her waist, over her layered robes, as she pocketed the bottles.

Avoiding her gaze as much as she was stiffly avoiding his, Gray rubbed a damp hand over his face, completely numb, after she'd moved off.

Killian had gathered a small group of his men in a tight, neat line. He was prowling in front of them, back and forth, speaking low and fast. Emwell. Mayver. Johnson. Others Gray couldn't name, he didn't know …

Killian's words from moments earlier suddenly sunk into Gray's mind. They were going to keep Conor here, in this small hamlet, and that wasn't what Gray wanted, he needed to keep Conor in his sight-

Gray was moving, dulled, blunt, towards Killian. Codder stopped him, a hand on his chest. He'd rolled up the sleeves of his soldier's uniform, exposing a haphazard bandage and several gashes.

'You stay right there, stray,' Codder drawled. His gaze was more shadowed than ever. 'Major's busy.'

'Codder, step back from Griffin,' said Killian. 'Don't be a damn idiot - step back. Sorena, are you ready?'

'Almost,' Sorena said.

Killian was back, roughly shouldering Codder aside, his cap pulled low over his dark eyes. He was checking Gray's vest, checking Gray's eyes. 'Ready?'

'Conor - stays with me,' said Gray.

'It's safer for Conor here, kid. He's staying here. Big breath. Ready to go?'

Gray stalled, his mind jammed. He glanced after Conor again.

'No, Gray.' There was a sharp bite to Killian's words. 'He stays here. Pickering will take care of him.'

Gray dropped his gaze to the grass.

'Head on straight,' snapped Killian. 'You hear me?'

'I'm not going to-'

'I'm not going to let any fucking sorcerer within ten damn feet of you, not right now. Not Wilde, Not Krupin, certainly not your cousin. We'll revisit you seeing him later. Understood?'

'Killian, I don't …'

'Don't what?'

His tone was sharp enough to stall Gray. He needed to get his mind and mouth to connect properly, to kick himself into gear.

'I told you,' said Killian, 'Pickering is going to take care of him, all right? They'll move him to the fortress in Foix as soon as they can, he'll be very safe there.'

'We - we had a whole c-conversation about Conor two nights ago,' said Gray, beginning to breathe hard, 'and you didn't tell me this. I - I am …'

'I'm not getting into this with you right now.'

Gray fisted his hands, his mouth shut tight.

'My intention is to assure you that your cousin will be safe, he'll be protected, so you can focus on what's important. You understand?'

Gray closed his eyes.

Get it together, now, pull it together-

'What's important right now, Gray?'

Gray started. Opened his aching eyes. 'Luring out the vampiric sorcerer,' he said stiffly. 'Getting that jar.'

'Correct.' There was a hard pause. 'Are you on board with me? You want to go to Krydon?'

Gray nodded, frowning at the grass, because of course he wanted to go, he'd always made that clear, but he couldn't just leave Conor here-

'Come.' Killian was urging him back into a fahrenning circle, a hard hand on his shoulder. 'Come on.'

Suddenly, Gray was getting jostled again, and he was struggling to keep his footing, when,

CRACK.

They landed in Krydon.

-------

There was a long moment, as the darkness of fahrenning cleared, and the forest came into view on one side, and Krydon on the other, when every tiny detail about Krydon came flooding back to Gray. A hundred small memories, swiftly rising.

The bustle of the tavern, the narrow and winding cobbled streets, the dark stone of the buildings, the steep rooftops. Battle tournaments in the town square. The bellowed northern warcries. Grinding wheels in the armouries. Alistair arguing with Barin, racing Alistair to the alehouse, sitting on the rooftop with smuggled bottles of cider and listening as Alistair talked and talked, and expressively waved his hands. Krydon in the red light of dawn, shadowed by the mountain and ruins above. Krydon in the storms of winter, reduced to pools of lamplight in the snow-covered streets and fogged windows.

Gray glanced back at the forest.

The treeline was very close. It wouldn't take much, to slip through the trees and be swallowed by the darkness beyond.

Gray couldn't. He wouldn't do that.

Vampiric sorcerer first. Take care of Alistair.

Then figure out what he was going to do. As long as Conor didn't wake and tell anyone, as long as no one figured it out, as long as they came out the other side of this whole thing unscathed.

'I've got your back,' Killian was saying in an undertone.

Gray wrenched his attention from the forest.

'I have you,' said Killian. 'Understood?'

He nodded.

'Follow Jessica's path. You're not going to see me. Got it?'

Gray nodded again.

Killian hesitated. His dark gaze darted over to Krydon. Lingered there, for a fraction too long. 'You follow your orders exactly. You make good choices.'

Another nod.

'Go.'

Gray started towards Krydon.

Behind him, Killian's clipped Lismerian, 'Line formation, men. Swords ready. Emwell, with the princess …'

-------

There was no hidden ambush of northern warriors, and this had Gray on edge. No arrows, no knives flying through the air. The makeshift barricades were tumbled. Abandoned.

The streets lay broken. Doors gaped like mouths. Windows dark. No voices, no carts. No birds, or cats, or crickets. Only the faint scratch of wind moving thick dust across cobblestones. A shingle creaked overhead.

Gray's pulse beat in his ears.

He tried to push his senses out, tried to feel for any signatures in the air, but there was something wrong with him, like there was something wrong with Krydon. All he could feel was his own magic, thudding inside him like a war drum. Goosebumps broke out over his skin, because Jessica hadn't said Krydon was abandoned, nor had Killian, so something must've scared the town badly enough to send fiercely territorial warriors into hiding, or fleeing, and it could have only recently happened.

He didn't know how much time he had, how long they'd spent in the palace, fighting Lunn and Conor. He didn't know when the Othoans would stream out of the forest, and with them, maybe Wilde and Krupin.

His arms and legs weren't working how they should. His boots scuffed and crunched through black ash and debris. His strength was gone, dissolved under his trembling muscles, under feverish hot skin, his mind clouded and his tongue thick, and his limbs sore. This was magic fatigue on steroids, dragging him, swirling, towards sleep.

He had to keep going.

He would push past it.

It didn't matter his magic was a beating hard against his veins, that his nerves were fried from being overloaded, because he was here, he was in Krydon, and he'd do everything within his power to lure the vampiric sorcerer out, get Longwark to fight …

Except Longwark didn't want to collect Gray.

This was one of the few things of which Gray was certain. Two masters, Baldwin had said. Longwark was working for someone else - Krupin, apparently, at one stage, judging by that brief glimpse into Conor's memories. But, not Krupin anymore. Surely not. Wilde had sent Conor to try to infiltrate Longwark's group, and if Wilde was so suspicious, then Krupin would be, too.

Right?

Longwark's other master couldn't be Krupin. There was no way. The colleague he spoke of, at the mountain, it wouldn't have been Krupin.

Colleague and master were two very different words …

He collapsed against the closest wall.

Pushed himself off, and made himself kick up into a clumsy run, into a sprint-

He collided with someone huge.

He collided so hard Gray bounced off, and skidded spectacularly backwards, his axe scraping against the cobblestones.

A huge hand fisted the front of his shirt.

Longwark glared down at him. His wild hair came loose from a messy braid, straggles coming down into his intense grey eyes, and catching on the frame of the two sets of glasses nested in his hair. His blue rune tattoos were covered in bruises and grime. He wore several layered belts around his waist, crammed with weapons and bottles.

Gray's vision tunnelled.

Longwark surveyed him. His fist didn't loosen.

'You're going into a ryece,' said Longwark. 'Clochaint.'

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