Stoyan clenched his fists.

“We follow his spouse,” Lamar said from the depths of the room.

“There you go,” Savannah said. “We need you here. The Preceptor is a lost cause. You can’t get him back.”

Lamar walked into the center of the room and bowed his head to Elara.

Stoyan swore.

“We were given specific orders,” Lamar said. “He told us that if he died, you inherited command.”

“He isn’t dead,” Stoyan snarled.

Lamar didn’t answer.

Stoyan clenched his fists again and bowed his head.

“I will speak for Bale,” the female berserker called out. “We obey the spouse. We won’t dishonor his last order.”

They were hers, Elara realized. She had the castle and the Iron Dogs. She didn’t have to share authority anymore. Hugh trusted her to take care of his people.

There was only one solution to this problem. It was staring her straight in the face. Fear gripped her, so strong she could barely breathe. She was stronger, she reminded herself. She was always stronger.

She had to get him back. There was no other way.

Her voice came out cold. “Bring the cows.”

A shocked silence fell. The Iron Dogs looked around, bewildered.

“You can’t,” Savannah recoiled. “For him? You would manifest for him?”

“Hugh was abandoned by everyone in his life.” Her words rang out. “His parents, his teacher, his surrogate father. They all threw him away. He trusted us. He sacrificed himself to save us. This is his home. I’m his wife. I will not abandon him. Bring the cows.”

Elara stood on the wall. The fires had been lit, fighting back the night. On the field, remnants of the mrog force mulled about, confused. Stoyan was right. Most of them eventually walked off into the wilderness. She had no idea how long the magic wave would last, but tech would kill them, she was sure of it. There was too much magic in their bodies to survive the tech.

The moon had risen.

In the bailey, sigils were being drawn with chalk and salt. Dugas presided over it. He was wearing his white robe. On the walls and in the bailey the Departed waited, wearing white. A line of cows stood waiting, each decorated with sigils drawn in white, dedicated to her. Fifteen total. That would do.

“Don’t do this,” Savannah said, her voice pleading. “You have everything you want. Just let Nez have him. It solves all of our problems.”

“No.”

“Elara…”

“Do you remember that night?” she asked. She didn’t have to specify which night. It was always the first night, the night she was reborn.

“Of course I remember.”

“You said then that loyalty was the only thing we had. Before friendship, before love, before wealth, there is loyalty.”

Savannah didn’t answer.

“I’ve made up my mind,” Elara said. “I have to bring him back.”

Savannah opened her arms and wrapped them around her. “You poor child,” the witch whispered.

Elara rested her head on Savannah’s shoulder, the way she had done when she was little and for a moment she was ten years old again, frightened and alone on that first night.

“You poor sweet girl. You can do this, you hear? You can hold it at bay. Don’t surrender to it. Don’t let it devour you.” Her voice broke. “You’re stronger than it. You hear me? You grip it and you make it obey. Don’t forget who you are.”

“I won’t,” Elara promised. She believed it. She had no choice. Any doubt and she would lose.

Savannah let her go, looked at her, and brushed the stray hair off Elara’s face. There were tears in her eyes. “It’s time then.”

Elara walked down the stairs to the bailey.

Dugas pulled out a curved knife covered with sigils.

Stoyan and Lamar moved to stand next to her.

“What’s going on right now?” Lamar asked quietly.

“I’m going to manifest,” she said.

“Why does the druid have a knife?” Lamar asked.

“Because tonight he isn’t a druid. Defend the castle while I’m gone. That’s your order.”

Stoyan opened his mouth, but she walked away from them and stepped into the ring of sigils.

A low chant rose from the Departed, gaining strength. She felt her magic stir in response.

“Go inside,” Savannah told the Iron Dogs. “You don’t want to be here for this.”

Lamar began to protest.

“Go inside,” Elara told them. “Please.”

The centurions walked away.

A bare-footed child led the first cow to Dugas and walked away. The beast looked at Elara with liquid brown eyes, trusting. Guilt twisted her. She clenched her teeth and reached deep inside herself, into the place where her magic waited behind a locked door.

Dugas chanted, his face turning savage. The curved knife flashed, catching the light of the fires. Bright red blood splashed across his white robe.

Power punched Elara, catapulting her through the door straight into the depths of her magic to the cold presence that waited for her there. Ancient as the stars, powerful beyond measure, too complex for a human to understand, yet single-minded in its ferocity. It waited for her, no longer a frozen iceberg, but a pool of celestial water.

She sank into it, fueled by the magic of the sacrifice. The liquid closed over her head, submerging her, and she let it flood her with its magic…

The universe opened like a flower, its secrets hers for the taking.

Hanging off a torture rack wasn’t the funnest thing he had ever done, Hugh decided. Nez’s helpers twisted his arms before chaining him and his ligaments whined at him, the pain constant and difficult to ignore.

He hung in Nez’s HQ, a room in a large pre-Shift building, presumably somewhere in Rooster Point, although he couldn’t be sure. They had dragged him here in the dark. The only thing he remembered clearly was passing the shell of a Matador, dented and ripped as if something with big teeth had taken it in its jaws and bit. The Departed’s handiwork. Somehow the cockroach had survived it.

Several metal braziers full of flames lit the room. Most of Rooster Point had been abandoned for so long, nobody bothered to install fey lanterns, and Nez had to resort to an old-school dungeon. Aside from braziers, there wasn’t much to it. Supplies thrown here and there, typical jetsam and flotsam of the Legion on the move. Chains, undead collars, crates of equipment, m-scanners designed to record residual magic signatures, were all pushed against the walls.

Nez was leaning against the table, directly across from him, drinking coffee. He hadn’t changed much. Still lean, his face phlegmatic and arrogant. After a while all of the Legatus’ got that expression. Hugh had seen more than a dozen come and go. Of all of them Steed was the only one he could stomach. His memory brought up Steed in a cage, staring at him with insane eyes, as Hugh fed him bread.

He had regrets. But then he himself was caged now. Turnabout was fair play.

“How does it feel?” Nez asked.

“Well, doctor, it feels sore and tingly.”

“You know what I hate about you?” Nez sipped his coffee. “This idiotic bravado. There are things in this life that have to be taken seriously. At first I thought you were trying to hide weakness behind all the quips, but now I know. You’re just stupid.” He leaned forward. “Has it sunk into your big dumb brutish head yet? I won.”

“Nez, what did you win, exactly? I’m not dead. That’s a telling fact. Are you allowed to kill me?”

Silence answered.

“I take that as a no,” Hugh said. “So, really, what you’re allowed is a little bit of time to do whatever you want to me and gloat. And that’s it. Then you’ll have to deliver me to Roland. Do whatever you’re going to do or grow some balls and kill me. Do it, Nez. I fucking dare you.”

The rage in Nez’s eyes was delicious. If he pushed Nez far enough, he would snap and kill him, which would be the best outcome possible.

“That’s a short leash he’s got you on,” Hugh said.

Nez grabbed a length of pipe off his desk and swung it like a bat. The pipe connected. Bones crunched as his ribs shattered. Nez erupted into a flurry of hits. The pipe landed again and again, each blow a new burst of agony. Finally, he slumped against the desk and let go of the pipe. It clattered to the floor.