Young Writers Society

If James had hit Alexander, it didn't make a difference. James jumped to his feet.

Alexander was already on the ground, barreling towards him. Alexander flicked his hand again. Instinctively, James dodged.

Something whizzed by him, but he saw nothing.

Darts, he guessed. Alexander wouldn't want to waste losing them all to the grass.

James sent a shot towards Alexander, but he saw it coming. The shot rang out, echoing through the valley.

Alexander swooped in.

Swing. Dodge. Miss.

For a few seconds, neither of them made any contact with each other. In rapid succession, every hit or attempt to grab the other was met with empty air as they dodged every blow.

Alexander's arm swung overhead. James ducked.

As he sprung back up, he could feel something drip down his back.

Blood.

His shoulder was bleeding again. The pain would register later.

Alexander reached into his jacket. James shot again.

The brief flash from the gun made his vision go white for a second too long. What he saw next was the quiver of Alexander's leg for a split second before he was reeling backwards.

Alexander swiped a dagger through the air.

James dove to the side. As Alex brought his arm down, James shot upward again.

At the sight of his gun, Alexander leaned back. But James hit.

At least, he thought so.

Alexander dropped his dagger, but quickly spun around James. James's feet were fast, and he followed so that Alex never got behind him.

But now that he was facing the other direction, he saw something behind Alexander.

A shadow.

A rider.

A horse.

Only a second of hesitation.

Alexander grabbed James's wrist and ripped him forward, popping the gun out of his hand. It disappeared into the grass.

James shot his free hand upward and he punched Alexander's chin.

His teeth cracked together, and Alexander stumbled backward. James three himself forward, and with all of his weight pushed Alexander to the ground. But as Alexander bounced back off of James's shoulders, he shot his hands out and propelled himself back to his feet.

But James was ready.

Before Alexander could stand to his full height, James grabbed his head with both hands. He held Alexander's head steady as he slammed his forward.

Forehead met forehead. Skull met skull. Alexander grunted and stumbled back again, catching himself as he fell.

James clenched his bloodied fist, ready to go in for another hit. But then Alexander glanced behind him.

Alexander backpedalled and ran out of the way. When James looked up to see what Alexander saw, he found himself staring into a ball of fire flying through the air.

James's eyes went wide.

He dropped to the ground.

The fire narrowly missed him. He could feel the blazing heat singe his skin as the flames brushed past his face and hit the ground.

Instantly, the grass caught fire.

"Sorry!" Clandestine's voice carried over the sound of flames crackling.

No. No.

James sprung to his feet. The flames were already crawling closer, eating at the space between him and Alexander.

There was a wall of fire. It separated him and the bounty hunter, but Clandestine also stood on the other side of the wall. His heart began to race as the flames eagerly jumped from blade to blade, and further down the creek the wild horses begin to stir and flee the scene.

Alexander was back on his feet. He rushed towards Clandestine.

James ran.

Clandestine readied another ball of fire in her palm. Alexander flicked his hand toward her before he even closed the distance, and Clandestine flinched.

"Hey!" she shouted, the fire in her hands dissipating as she touched her arm. Grabbing something.

"What's... what is this?" she sputtered.

She stumbled backward as Alexander pulled out a knife and fell, scrambling away.

"What did you--?" Clandestine sputtered again. Her movements were slowed.

James cut through the fire, jumping over the growing flames. The heat licked at his ankles, but he flew through it, speeding ahead.

His heart beat inside his skull, and a high-pitched ringing pierced his ears, drowning out the noise around him.

His focus was fixated.

The glint of moonlight on Alexander's dagger. Clandestine, now prone. Alexander, standing over Clandestine like a shadow. A shadow of every killer and every consequence that had followed James since he left the kingdom.

Alexander barely turned his head to see James coming.

They collided.

They both flew through the air and hit the ground with a grunt. They bounced off of each other and James caught himself while Alexander rolled to the side, back turned to him.

Alexander's dagger glinted in the flattened grass beside him, and James shot his hand out, wrapping his fingers around the hilt. His ears were still ringing. He he didn't hear Alexander move. It was only when Alexander flung himself at him that he realized what was happening.

Alexander was on top of him.

James lifted the dagger. Alexander grabbed his wrist before he could make contact with skin.

James shot out his other hand and grabbed Alexander's opposite wrist, but it wasn't until he caught it that he realized what kind of weapon Alexander had pulled.

A syringe.

For a moment, James stared at the sheer size of it.

The sun was setting. The light was fading. Somewhere, in the distance, the sun had dipped behind the hill and all that remained was the residual light in the darkening sky and the light of the growing flames eating away at the grass, ever inching towards them.

The firelight danced off the glass of the syringe, piercing through the semi-transparent liquid of purple hue. The needle seemed hauntingly long as it hovered over James's shoulder, as if it were trying to reach him while they stayed there, hands interlocked with wrists, each keeping the other from piercing through skin.

James knew what he was staring at.

The syringe was filled with lumshade. It had to have been what Alexander laced his darts with as well. It was the chosen weapon of the kingdom and their mage hunters - known for its ability to temporarily neutralize magic and knock out an opponent within seconds with even a small dosage.

And he was staring at a whole syringe full of it.

His bleeding shoulder finally began to register pain as Alexander applied all of his strength and body weight to push against James's grasp. Naturally, the arm keeping the syringe from stabbing him was the same one connected to that shoulder.

Pain shot up to his hand. He tightened his grip.

This stalemate wouldn't last forever. The fire was growing. Clandestine was unconscious. James could feel his arms beginning to tremble. Such was the disadvantage of being underneath his opponent.

"I see we're both right handed," James said through grit teeth. "Otherwise, this wouldn't--"

"Who's the girl?" Alexander cut in.

His gaze was piercing.

James tried to think of a way out of this.

"I know the kingdom sent you," James hissed.

The heat of the fire drew closer. Clandestine was just outside its reach.

Alexander let out a laugh, and for a moment, the two of them pushed against one another's strength. Both of their hands were growing sweaty, and James knew it had to be the heat of the fire adding to the shine on Alexander's brow.

Pain shot up James's arm again. He clenched his teeth, knowing he couldn't hold this forever.

"You know," Alexander said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Carter's been getting anxious. You haven't been home in six years."

Carter. So it was true. Alexander wasn't just the king's hunter. He was the army's hunting dog, too.

But if Alexander was referring to Carter by his first name... that meant they were friends.

Or Alexander believed them to be friends.

"Glad to know that someone still misses me," James said through grit teeth.

He could feel his shoulder growing wet along with the ground beneath him.

"Funny how after all this time," Alexander said, his voice growing quieter. "He still wants you back alive."

Alexander's voice fell to a whisper.

"So he can kill you himself."

Alexander's attention was locked onto James's expression.

This was his window.

James held eye contact.

"If that's what he really wanted," James said, feeling his strength wane. "Then why isn't he here?"

Alexander started to laugh. Then James relented.

What happened next was in quick succession.

First, the long needle of the syringe pushed into James's shoulder with the power of Alexander's full weight and all of the pent-up pressure behind it.

Less than a second after, James lost the dagger in his hand as Alexander ripped it away.

But at the same moment, James's left hand was free.

And Alexander was right-handed.

And Alexander had a gun. On his right hip.

While Alexander was preoccupied with emptying the full contents of the syringe into James's system, James reached for Alexander's holster and ripped the gun out of its cage. Without even seeing it, he knew by touch alone that it was a six-shooter, similar to his own.

He flipped off the safety. His finger found the trigger. He pointed it into Alexander's side.

The impact of the gunshot felt like a burst of energy between them.

Alexander let out a cry of pain. James pushed him off with all of his might remaining and began to run, already feeling his body entering the precious few seconds between consciousness and everything being over.

The world around him was on fire. His hands were slick with sweat. The syringe remained stuck in his shoulder like an arrow, swaying with each step.

When had his ears stopped ringing?

Alexander let out a strangled cry behind him.

James stumbled up to Clandestine, whose body laid mere inches from the fire.

Steeling himself, he reached down and brought his arms under hers.

The world around him was beginning to spin.

What about Elliot? He was tied to a tree. He couldn't run away. What about Clandestine's horse? Who was going to put out the fire? What if it spread out of control? When would the town of Bone spot it? Would they even be able to contain it?

What about Alexander?

James dragged Clandestine through the grass as quickly as his legs would take him. He was starting to lose feeling in his arms, first. Then his legs. For a moment, they still moved without sensation.

Then they started to give out. First it was his left arm. Then his left leg.

Just a little further.

He fell to the ground, crawling. Dragging Clandestine beside him.

We just have to get to the water.

He could hear the creek. The faint sloshing of slow-moving water felt all the more distant with the increasing heat of the fire encroaching upon them.

His body gave out when his hand touched dirt. He couldn't move anymore. His breaths were ragged.

James looked down at Clandestine.

In the flickering light of the fire, he could make out her face. Unconscious. Unaware of the fate to befall them both.

She came all this way to have died for nothing.

As darkness crept in around him and the cold grip of drug-induced slumber pulled him under, the last thing he saw was Clandestine's eyes flutter open.

"So," Commander Salazar said, sliding her forefinger between the papers in her hands, preparing to look at the next one. "Alexander Kingsman."

Salazar's dark eyes flicked up to Carter from behind the file. She sat opposite his desk, posture upright and alert even in the cushioned seat beneath her. It was late at night, and the office was candle-lit with lanterns in opposing corners of the room, along with the tall wax candle burning on his desk. Salazar's silver plated armor caught the warm light in streaks of orange and yellow and reflected onto her warm, dark brown skin. Her deep, black hair seemed to swallow up the light, pulled back into a neat bun as was customary for their uniform.

"Yes," Carter said, leaning back into his office chair. "He seems promising."

The office was small. Decor was minimal, if nonexistent, but the exposed stone walls kept the room cool even in the hot summer nights. It was always humbling being this far from King's Peak, outside of the Moonlight Kingdom's borders, away from capital, and away from the hub of the kingdom's wealth and resources.

Salazar laid the file down on the desk in front of her and looked at him with a raised brow.

"I assume what you saw in him was--"

"A mind to be molded," Carter answered. "And a useful skillset. His background and personality made him easy to befriend, and types like him are driven more by personal loyalties than a movement or any sense of duty. He wanted to prove himself. I didn't think it would do any harm. He knows the boundaries."

"You're hoping he'll finally catch Tiberius," Salazar said, straight to the point as always.

"Of course that's what I'm hoping," Carter said, tapping his fingers on the table rhythmically as he looked out the window. "It's been six years, and he's been a thorn in the kingdom's side and a mar on the kingdom's reputation for too long. I'm tired of his infamy."

The sun had set, and it's remaining light was fading from the sky. The window was cracked open, letting the faint breeze in through, carrying with it the smells of the city.

"You've always had a soft spot for the outcasts," Salazar commented, flipping to the next page as she skimmed the rest of the file.

Salazar was being humorous, but her assertion wasn't untrue. She herself had been an outcast before he took her under his wing and helped her ascend the ranks of the Moonlight Kingdom military, and everyone in his inner circle had a similar story. Of course, none of them were without their own merit, but he chose them all for a similar reason. They were skilled, but they were also vulnerable. With him, they found a sense of belonging and meaning, and that made them powerful allies so long as he reinforced that sense of loyalty.

But her was careful now.

With James, he'd made the mistake of letting him get too close. If you truly wanted people to do what you wanted, you had to convince them you were what they wanted. That's what led to this whole mess; this years-long headache that was catching James and trying to finally tie up loose ends.

He sighed.

"He was supposed to send word a few days ago," Carter said. "Alexander."

"You think he ran into trouble?" Salazar asked.

Carter pursed his lips.

"Well," he said. "Tiberius has made it this far. Seems he still has fight in him yet, so I don't imagine him going down easy."

"But you said he wasn't cruel when you knew him," Salazar said. "Maybe he's just been lucky all this time."

"After six years? That's one lucky man," Carter answered with a huff of amusement through his nose.

"Seems so," Salazar ceded, finally leaving the file alone, done with her interest in Alexander's background.

Sure, Kingsman was a former criminal. But he'd been reformed for years, and the best use of his skillset was channeling it towards something redemptive - or at least redemptive in the eyes of the law - like catching Nye's most wanted outlaw.

He just wished Alexander was better at communication.

A stronger breeze pushed through the window, sending the formerly half-open pane clattering against the outer wall. The breeze flew in and swirled throughout the room, rustling the papers on his desk and blowing out the candle.

Wordlessly, he exused himself first and got up, his plated armor clinking with a familiar rhythm as he made his way to the window, catching a the remnants of the sunset. Beyond the tall, leafy trees, there was a glow of red on the horizon, and everything above it was turning to a deep, dark blue.

Overhead, the moon was starting to peek out in a crescent, reminiscent of the Moonlight Kingdom's crest. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe it was just the moon. He never did put his hope in ideas of good fortune - he ensured it in his own power that it happened.

A small shadow came fluttering out of the darkness.

Ah, there it was. The poetry of life.

He extended his hand, recognizing the raven as one of the kingdom's messenger birds' for the shape of the small cylindrical pack on its back. The bird recognized the inviting motion and seamlessly landed on his armored finger, looking a bit spent from the journey.

He gently pet the bird's head with the padded portion of his gauntlet. With his other hand, he reached out and pulled the window shut, latching it to prevent any more windy disturbances.

As he turned with the bird on his hand, Salazar got to her feet, standing at attention. Carter waved for her to sit back down and opened the leather container on the bird's back to pull out the letter it carried. With the rolled up letter in hand, he let the bird to a standing perch in the corner of the room, and it hopped off of his finger to its resting place.

Then Carter turned to Salazar, opening the letter.

Sent on the 26th of Sol, to the High Commander Carter Haddon,


I except to capture Tiberius within the next few days. He is traveling north of Bone under the guise of a cowboy. I will deliver him to you in Ruddlan before the month's end.


Rest in the Moon's Light,

Alexander Kingsman


"Kingsman?" Salazar asked as Carter's eyes flitted across the letter.

"He's a few days late for correspondence," Carter said, rolling it back up. "But he's on schedule. He should be here in two days."

He paused, letting out a faint laugh. "Apparently our outlaw's pretending to be a cowboy, of all things."

"You think he still has that horse you gave him all those years ago?" Salazar asked.

"We've recieved reports of sightings of him with a golden steed," Carter said. "Though only in recent months. I thought he'd done away with it but he's always been the sentimental type, even if its to his detriment."

Salazar chuckled.

"Well, at least it'd make him easier to spot," she said.

That was true.

Carter walked back to his desk, setting the letter to the side as he sat down again across from Salazar.

"You don't have to stay," Carter said. "It's getting late. You should get some rest. If Alexander is coming soon we'll need to prepare to transport Tiberius to the kingdom."

Which would be a several weeks' journey.

Salazar hesitated, glancing off out the now-closed window. Carter watched out of the corner of his eye while he pulled out a blank piece of paper, pulling his pen and ink towards him to write back.

Salazar looked deep in thought, with her brows pinched together, pensive.

"Will it be painful for you?" Salazar asked. "To see him again?"

Carter's expression softened, and he let a wistful sadness show.

"Yes," he said. "But it's been a long time coming. And it's been a very long time since we were friends."

Salazar nodded, starting to get up to go. Her armor clinked as she stood and she paused, standing in front of her seat.

"If I was betrayed like that," she said. "I don't think I'd ever be able to trust again. I respect you for not letting that interfere with the future. Otherwise..."

She looked like she wanted to say more but her eyes fell to the ground, as if she were embarassed. Carter tried to smile with understanding.

"I'll be fine," Carter said. "Go get some rest."

Finally, without any more delay, Salazar nodded her head and turned to march out the door down to the barracks. When the door closed behind her, Carter let out another sigh in her absence, leaning back in his chair.

He let his gaze drift over to the raven, already asleep on its stoop.

It would, indeed, be an interesting reunion.

At one point, James had been wanted alive for information. But after six years, it was entirely possible his information was useless, now.

He wasn't exaggerating when he said that James had been a thorn in the kingdom's side - but he'd been a thorn in Carter's side before he'd ever made himself a problem for the kingdom. The only reason James accomplished what he did was because Carter had enabled him. James never would've gotten close enough to do that much damage if Carter hadn't helped him get there.

No one saw it coming. Not even him. But he should've.

Carter sighed, idly twirling the ends of his mustache as he looked down at the empty paper in front of him.

If Alexander was still near Bone, Carter needed to send the letter immediately.

He sat up straighter, dipped his pen in the inkwell, and began to write.

The world around her was burning, but something about it felt right. Where panic should've registered, all she felt was the comfort of warmth. Something about the flames made her feel at home.

Curled up, Clandestine took in a deep breath, letting the smoke fill her lungs. It felt like the smoke was coming home, not just to into a space, but to where it belonged - or rather, where it came from. She found herself at peace, and with a deep sigh, she curled her tail around her--

--wait. Her tail?

Clandestine's eyes opened blearily. She could hear the loud crackle of fire eating away at the grass around her, and the heat of it nipping at her feet, piercing through the leather of her boots. It felt like her shoes were burning through to her skin.

She found herself staring at Matt.

He was collapsed on the ground, one arm underneath her, one arm over her stomach, face towards the sky. Why was he holding her? Maybe that wasn't the right question to ask at the moment.

His face shone with sweat, but he looked sickly. And more urgently, he looked entirely unresponsive.

Her head was spinning.

One moment, she'd been on her feet, trying to stop Alexander from killing Matt. The next, she'd been hit by some dart--

The dart!

She patted her arm, finding the dart was gone, but the memory and the pain of it still lingered.

But she could feel the pain of something else nip at her ankle.

Looking down, she saw that a burning piece of grass had flaked off and caught on her pants. Eyes going wide, she smacked tiny flame to death, adrenaline finally kicking in to overpower whatever sedative she'd been hit with.

The fire was two feet away and would reach them in seconds.

She glanced behind them at the creek, realizing what must have happened.

Matt was trying to get them to the water.

With a pained grunt, she forced herself to her feet and heaved Matt up, hooking her arms under his. Practically panting in exhaustion, she dragged him, walking backwards into the creek.

She didn't even know if Matt was alive or dying. She didn't even know where Alexander was. She didn't know how she was going to stop this fire that she started on accident that was already so big anyone a few miles away could see as a bright beacon.

The water came just above her knees at its deepest, slowing her down a bit, but she managed to pull Matt over to the other side. She kept dragging him until he was a few feet away from the waters' edge and she dropped him, realizing there was something else she'd forgotten.

Billy. And what about Elliot?

Her eyes darted down the stream, already spotting the distant, dark shadow of Billy, having run off a ways. But she remembered where she'd seen Elliot.

The fire had just reached the tree he was tied to, and was starting to leap up to the branches.

She burst into a sprint. Dirt flew behind her. Then water. Then dirt again.

Elliot was starting to kick and neigh, tugging at the rope that kept him bound to the burning tree.

With just a few feet between herself and Elliot, the flames began to craw down the rope.

Her sword was sheathed at her side. As she slowed with heavy steps, she drew her sword and slashed it through the rope before the fire could eat its way to Elliot.

Stomping to a sloppy stop, Clandestine whirled around and slid her sword back into its sheath. Elliot looked ready to dart away, but Clandestine came up alongside him.

"It's okay, buddy," she said, speaking over the roar of the fire. Embers sprinkled down on them from the tree overhead. Elliot neiged and jerked away. She followed him and grabbed the horn of his saddle, pulling herself up.

"Let's get out of here," she said with a click of her tongue. But Elliot was already moving. She scrambled to grab the reins, guiding him as he ran out into the water, eager to escape the heat of the fire.

It took her a moment to circle him back to where Billy and Matt were, but Elliot slowed without command when they drew near his usual rider.

She hopped out of his saddle, still breathing hard from all of the running.

Billy and Elliot stood behind her, antsy.

Matt laid in the grass, unconscious, potentially dying at her feet.

And ahead of her, across the creek that felt smaller and smaller with each passing second, was the raging fire she'd started on accident.

She'd been trying to save him. But now the whole valley was in danger of being consumed by her flames. And even the creek wouldn't stop the flames from eventually carrying over to the other side. If any amount of wind came, they were done-for.

How was she supposed to put this fire out?

Her palms were already sweating, but it felt like they were burning as she stared at the flames stretching into the pitch black night sky. She wished that, of all the magics she could've been born with, that she'd been gifted something else. Water was so much more useful. Earth could at least be turned to stomp out the fire.

She didn't know what to do. The best thing she could think of was to try and control the fire but even if she could, how long could she hold that with her magic?

She glanced back down at Matt. He still hadn't moved an inch since she last set him on the ground, face-up, his skin shining with sweat.

Biting her lip, she looked back at the fire.

She didn't have time to think through her options. There weren't any. She just had to try.

Extending her hands out towards the fire, she grit her teeth and took in a deep breath.

Silva rested her hands over Clandestine's. Her hands were rough, just like her. But whenever it came to magic, there was always something that softened in her demeanor. Clandestine used to think it was because she understood that Clandestine was afraid, but she wondered if Silva was afraid, too.

Clandestine tried to feel for the boundaries of the fire, reaching for it with her magic.

"As much as it's about control, it's about connection," Silva's words whispered in the back of her mind. She could just remember what her mentor's voice sounded like.

"It's a part of you, but if you stop paying attention to it, it does what it pleases," she said. "It needs someone to guide it."

Clandestine could feel her heart pounding in her chest as she pulled on the edges of the fire, trying to pull it back from spreading.

"Tell it where to go."

Clandestine stood with her arms spread out at her sides, fingers splayed with her palms towards the fire.

It was like there was an invisible force coming out of her hands holding the flames back, but she could feel the tension as the flames raged against it.

She looked up into the sky, wondering where she could send the fire, if she could even keep it contained long enough to send it anywhere.

And then her stomach dropped.

She felt a breeze.

In the near distance, she heard howling.

Wind wolves. They were drawn to the light. And they would carry the fire far beyond what she was able to contain. The fire would just keep spreading and spreading and--

The wolves came running in, spinning around one another in circles. Their bodies overlapped, mixing together in undefined shapes, with only their heads as distinguishable blue outlines in the dark of night. She strained to keep her hold on the fire's borders as the wolves started running in circles overhead.

No. That was worse. They were going to make a fire tornado if they kept that up.

She began to step forward, still straining to keep her focus. Her hair stuck to her forehead, pasted with sweat, and when she stepped into the creek even the water felt like it was burning.

But then the course of the wolves' spinning shifted. She realized they weren't circling down into the fire - they were circling down into the creek, creating a long, spinning path to the water with their bodies.

She stared, wide-eyed as, the moment the wolves' hit the water, water started to cycle up into their spiral of air.

The spiral stretched out over the fire, from the furthest edge to the next, and she could even feel the cool air spinning at the edges she contained.

Water flowed up like a spinning stream, now air-borne. It followed the spinning path to the very end, and there was a split second where she could feel the tension in the air.

The tension of the wolves' wind-tunnel, carrying the stream overhead. The tension in her own hands, feeling her strength beginning to wane.

Just when she thought she couldn't hold it any longer, the tunnel of air tightened, making the corkskrew stream a single line, and then it burst.

Like rain, the water sprinkled down, the wind carrying it violently, pounding against the flames.

Water was still being pulled from the stream, instantly turned into a rainy mist that kept spraying down, turning the flames to smoke.

Her hold on the flames finally broke when she realized there were no more flames to hold.

Clouds of smoke spun and shifted, following the twirl of the wind wolves as the spun up into the sky, dissapearing from view as quickly as they came.

Her arms dropped to her sides as she heaved heavy breaths, staring into the sudden darkness that followed.

Finally, she could hear the sound of the stream, trickling past her ankles. It felt so loud now that the fire was gone, and all she could hear was the faint sizzle of smoke rising.

Then the smell hit her, and she coughed.

Turning around, she continued to cough as she hobbled out of the water, feeling the exhaustion of the fight and the use of her magic starting to hit her.

"No, no, no," she wheezed between coughs, knowing things couldn't end here.

There was something she was forgetting. Even with the fire out, and the horses nearby, she knew she had to check on Matt. But there was something--

She froze. One foot in the water, one foot out.

She heard a faint groan down the stream. Looking up, her eyes began to adjust in the darkness. In the faint light of the slivered moon and the stars, she could see a shadow of a man lying at the edge of the water.

Alexander.

He was alive?

Panic drew her towards him, instead of away.

If Alexander was still alive, there was a very good chance he'd try to attack again. Especially now that he knew she was a mage, too.

But as she hobbled down the creek towards him, he didn't move. His shadow stayed still in the water, and all she could hear was the sound of her own footsteps and the trickling of water over him.

Time was ticking, and she knew it. Matt needed attention soon - she remembered smelling blood - but she couldn't tend to him if Alexander was still a threat.

But as she stopped at the edge of the creek, looking down at him, she had a sinking feeling that... he wasn't.

She couldn't see his face. But now that she was closer, she could hear his ragged breathing.

She swallowed, knowing that she had to be sure before she turned away.

Pushing through the exhaustion and the fog of her waterlogged head, she held out her hand, trying to focus on her magic once more.

If Alexander was alive and was going to try anything, she needed to have something to defend herself. And she needed something to see.

Looking down at her hand, she reached for her magic again, setting her focus on procuring a flame.

At first, all she felt was a draining of energy. But then there was a spark, and a small flame sputtered to life.

She held out her hand like it was a lantern. And she stared.

Alexander was bleeding out.

He was stretched out, with his upper body partially upright as his shoulders leaned against the dip at the water's edge, and he held his side with one hand. Even though her light was dim, she could see the steady dark stream flowing out of his side into the water, despite Alexander's attempt to control it.

Though she'd been temporarily unconscious for the rest of the fight, she understood what must've happened.

It looked like a gunshot wound. Matt must've shot him.

And judging on the placement in Alexander's gut, Alexander didn't have much time left.

She couldn't help but wince at the sight of the wound and the pang of guilt that hit her.

But Alexander was still conscious. And he looked up to meet her eyes with the most hateful stare she'd ever seen in anyone's eyes.

Even if she wanted to, she couldn't help him. She wasn't a miracle-working surgeon. She didn't have healing magic, and that was the only thing that could bring someone back from a gunshot wound like this.

Silently, it was like they both came to that same understanding.

She swallowed again, feeling frozen in place as she helplessly stared at him and he stared back with daggers in his eyes.

She glanced back towards Elliot and Billy, where Matt was lying, also injured. She hesitated. It felt wrong to just walk away, but--

"They'll come for you," Alexander said weakly.

Clandestine blinked, and turned her attention back to him.

She... she wasn't sure who they were supposed to be. Was he referring to mage hunters, because she was a mage? Or was he talking about the Moonlight Kingdom coming after Matt again? Would the latter pursue her if they found this fire and thought it was a mage's fault?

She clenched her jaw, brows furrowed.

"Good luck... running. For the rest of your life," Alexander said with a rueful laugh, but it very quickly turned into a cough, and she began to cough up blood.

Clandestine winced and looked down and away.

Even if Alexander was just trying to scare her, she knew he wasn't wrong.

The fire was huge. There was a good chance it was seen from Bone, and if people looked into it... someone would find Alexander, too. Or... what remained of him.

What had she gotten herself into?

Her stomach sank even more, and she glanced back at Matt, but quickly looked back at Alexander.

"Go to him," Alexander said with another weak cough. Blood coated his teeth. "I hope he's worth it."

For a moment, his breaths turned to shaky heaves. But only a few seconds passed before his breaths began to slow, and weaken even more.

Her heart dropped into her stomach when she couldn't hear it any more.

And then something inside of her snapped.

She wasn't about to have two people die today. Not if she could help it.

Dismissing her flame, she shook her head and ran. It was through the water, at first, and it splashed up around her in a small wave, drenching her pants. When she broke out onto the grass, she sped up, and was back alongside Matt in moments, half-soaked, but there.

She reached out to feel for a pulse first, pressing her fingers against her neck.

She waited a moment for the feeling to process. But he was still there. His blood was still flowing. He wasn't gone yet.

But she needed light to see what was going on, and she'd need both her hands, too.

With a small grumble, she pushed herself back to her feet again, feeling the ache in her muscles even more. She huffed as she walked over to Billy and grabbed her saddle-bag, pulling out a dagger as she turned back to where Matt laid.

Not wanting to risk another disastrous fire, she started ripping out the grass around him, slicing at it with her dagger until there was at least a two-foot circle around Matt that was cleared of flammable material.

Then she pulled out her torch - because she did actually own a torch - and dug it into the ground. Forcing out one last spark from her fingers, it caught alight, and she was able to set it next to Matt so she could finally see what she was working with.

And it wasn't pretty.

She knelt beside him, setting her bag at her side, and stared at the giant syringe sticking out of his arm. The needle looked like it'd been pushed in further than it should've gone, and she knew that it was going to hurt when she inevitably had to pull it out.

She borrowed a light from the torch, letting a small flame flicker between her fingers as she held it closer to get a better look.

Purple.

She knew what that was. There was only one drug in Nye that she knew of that was an undeniably saturated purple color, and it was lumshade.

But lumshade... that was used to control mages. At least, that's what she knew it for. It knocked them out mages so they couldn't use their magic. It was what she'd been hit with from Alexander's darts, though in a dramatically smaller dose.

Why had Alexander used it on Matt? She thought Matt didn't have magic.

She squinted. The tiny bit of lumshade in the vial was so insignificant compared to the rest that was gone if it'd been full when he'd been injected with it. She didn't know enough about the drug to know what kind of side effects there could be if he'd been given too much, and she had no idea how long he'd even be out.

Hopefully it dulled some of the pain, at least.

Shaking her head, she carefully pushed Matt's shoulder so she could see under him, and there was, indeed, a growing pool of blood from his shoulder. It didn't look like he'd been hit by anything back there, so she had to assume it was just his former wound re-opened.

She sighed tensely through her nose.

This was going to be a really, really long night, wasn't it? And she was already so exhausted.

But she took in one last deep breath, steeling her nerves as she reached into her back and pulled out her blanket, laying it next to the torch. Getting to her feet once more, she - as carefully as she could manage, all things considered - grabbed under Matt's arms and moved him so he was on top of the blanket. She had to adjust his legs so he wasn't in a really weird position, but she wondered how much he could even register in his current state.

"Okay, tough guy," she said, kneeling beside him once more with her bag. "Just bear with me here. I've only ever stitched myself up after some rough run-ins with monsters, but I'll do my best here. We're going to get you better."

She didn't know why she was talking to him when he probably couldn't even hear what she was saying. But maybe he could. She didn't know.

She pulled out the small first-aid kit she had in her bag. There was a roll of bandages, some healing salve, some pins, needles, stitching string...

The needle had to go first.

It was going to bleed, though, so she'd have to act fast.

She unbuttoned Matt's shirt so she could get under it to put pressure on the insertion wound, and she pulled out a wad of clean gauze. Taking one last deep breath to steady herself and focus, she slid the gauze under his shirt and jacket, feeling up to his shoulder where the needle pinned everything down.

Right up against the needle, she pressed down, gauze against it, and after counting down ten seconds, with her other hand she began to tug up on the syringe.

She'd dealt with a lot of bad scrapes, bruises, and injuries in her years, but for some reason feeling the needle sliding out of the layers of skin made her cringe. She had to push the feeling down, though, to keep her hand steady as the tip came out. The moment she saw it she pressed the gauze over the insertion point, pressing down.

She flicked the syringe over into the dirt beside the torch.

"We're gonna play this safe and put some pressure on this for a minute."

As if he wasn't already bleeding elsewhere. But it wasn't like he needed to bleed more.

She sighed, leaning over him so she could just let her body weight add the pressure.

For a moment, she just sat in silence, looking up at the night sky. Looking out at the open field, and the shadow of the burnt tree by the water. Elliot and Billy still stood closeby, dipping into the creek to drink and cool down.

She wasn't ready to think about Alexander again, yet, but she knew his body was still there.

She sighed, looking down at Matt's face.

She wondered if he knew she was coming. Then again, how could he have known? She'd been so far behind, it's not like he would've seen her... especially with his eyesight.

Clandestine couldn't help but feel bad at the thought. She really shouldn't have teased him for that, as it was something he really couldn't help. But there was a lot he couldn't help, at the moment.

He only had her. Which felt strange, seeing as they were still, by any reasonable assesment, strangers.

She found herself wondering what she was going to do if none of this worked out.

Finally pulling her hand away, she left the gauze where it was for a moment, knowing that now she had to continue working fast, especially if she wanted to get the bleeding under control.

At this point, she had a feeling that putting pressure on it wasn't going to work fast enough. And she couldn't move to stitching until it stopped bleeding. So that left the only other option she could think of, which was cauterizing it.

"It's a good thing you're out cold," she muttered softly, reaching around him to pull him upright.

She found it easiest to lean his head into her shoulder while she took his jacket off so it was out of the way. The shirt was harder to get off because it was practically glued to his skin from all the sweat, and despite how strong the smell of sweat and blood was, she couldn't help but hope that maybe all of the sweating meant he sweat out some of the lumshade, so maybe it wouldn't affect him as much.

She peeled the sleeves off his arms and threw the wet, smelly shirt and jacket to the side.

"You know," Clandestine said. "This would be weirder if you were awake."

She started to lay him back down and flip him on his back.

"It's probably better that--"

She faltered.

She hadn't really paid attention when she was getting his clothes out of the way, but she found herself staring in shock at the amount of scarring on his back.

She'd been expecting to see blood. She'd been expecting to see the wound on his shoulder that she knew was there.

But she found herself staring at a back covered in scars.

She might've payed more attention to the dozens of smaller overlapping scars that looked like they were from a whip, or the burn of a brand on his upper back, between his shoulders. But the reason she found herself staring and unmoving was because of the three giant scars scraping down his back. The scar tissue was thick, raised, and discolored, and the width of each scar was at least two inches.

The angle of how all three scars were aligned made a shiver run down her spine.

Clandestine had studied every clawed creature in existence. She knew their prints, and the shape of the marks they left behind.

The only creature she knew of that could leave a mark like this was a creature she'd only heard of in folklore. No one believed that it was real.

But she couldn't think of anything else that could have caused it.

So much for not being a monster hunter. What else was Matt lying about?

She blinked, trying to break herself from her frozen trance.

Blood. Bleeding. He was bleeding.

"Agh," she groaned to herself, scrambling to pull more supplies out of her bag. She found a hunting knife, and it would have to do.

Shaking her head, she set her palm out in front of her and conjured up a small flame. She could feel her energy waning, but she carried on, knowing she had to push through for this.

Instead of focusing on the side of the flame, she focused on making the flame burn hot. It was small, but she watched as it turned from a pale yellow to a deep red.

That was when she held the blade of the knife over the fire.

"I know this is going to hurt whether you're out of it or not," Clandestine said under her breath. "Just..."

Sorry.

She watched as the metal of the knife changed color, her flame making it glow a burning orange. Biting her lip, she dispelled her flame and shifted so she was right next to Matt's shoulder.

Holding the knife, her hand hovered with hesitation over his still-oozing shoulder.

Stop stalling.

Taking in a deep breath, she pressed the dull edge of the blade against the reopened wound, careful to angle it so she was only getting where the wound was open. She didn't want to burn extra skin.

There were a dozens of tiny cuts though, so she had to repeat this process a few times, pausing to re-heat the blade in-between. It took her a while to finally get it all to stop bleeding, but when it was finally over, she leaned back and stared up at the sky with a deep sigh.

She had to wait for her knife to cool before she just set it down. She couldn't have something else catch fire. At this point, that would just be embarassing. Not that it wasn't just as embarassing the first time, too. She just didn't think she could put out another fire. She could feel herself fading fast.

Speaking of fading fast, she needed to use the last of her energy to finish the job.

Shaking the hot dagger, she blew on it a few times and carefully laid it in a patch of dirt to let it cool. She took not to not forget where she put it, in the event it was still hot later, and then she got to bandaging.

Picking Matt up was a process. She didn't want to move him a lot, but she only had the kind of bandaging where you wrapped your wound around and around to keep gauze in place. So she had to reach around him a few times in several layers before she got it to stay, and - at this point, no longer to her surprise - saw even more scars all over him.

He had scars on his arms. His chest. Some of them looked like they could've been from knives or swords, like he'd gotten them in a fight. But others looked more... deliberate. They weren't your average slash mark.

She didn't want to imagine what Matt had been through, but she imagined it hadn't been pretty.

Suffice to say, she had even more questions than she had answers.

Clandestine let out a long sigh, shakily pushing herself to her feet one last time.

The horses. She at least had to double-check the horses to make sure they were alright. Now that Matt was face-down on her blanket and no longer actively dying, she had to make sure no one else was falling apart.

Sure, she was, but sleep would hopefully solve that soon.

Clandestine trudged over to Billy with heavy footfalls. Billy had settled by the creek with Elliot, and the both of them looked like they were resting, trying to fall asleep.

She paused in her steps, squinting into the darkness, trying to scan Billy's body. But she was staring at a black horse in the middle of the night. She wasn't going to see anything without light.

That said, though, Billy wasn't behaving oddly. He didn't favor any legs over the others. He looked relaxed, and most creatures who were in pain showed signs of it.

Not wanting to disturb Billy's sleep, she decided to walk past him, and turned her attention to Elliot. He was easier to see with his light golden coat, but one glance over him told her he was fine. Just exhausted.

That made three of them. Or four of them, if she counted Matt.

But then again, she didn't really know how Matt was feeling. He was drugged to oblivion.

Shaking her head, Clandestine turned back around, ready to finally fall asleep.

But then she saw a figure out in the distance. A shadow, moving down the length of the creek.

In the shape of a horse. With... a saddle.

Clandestine stared as the horse approached slowly, lacking a rider. She racked her brain, trying to figure out if she was just so tired she was seeing things or if she missed something.

And then it clicked.

That was Alexander's horse, wasn't it?

Of course. One more thing, and it was another horse. Clandestine almost wished she didn't feel compelled to go get it, but the same heavy feeling she felt in her stomach when she looked at Alexander ate away at her when she stared at the horse's distant silhouette.

It wasn't just that she thought there could be something on the horse that could explain all of this. A part of her almost felt obligated to take care of the horse on behalf of Alexander... even though he'd almost killed her.

That was what happened, right?

The last thing she could remember before she was out was him coming at her with a dagger and murder in his eyes. She'd been too frozen by the lumshade dart to do anything, and it was all gone after that.

Obviously, he hadn't succeeded.

She glanced back at Matt, who predictably laid like a dead man without being dead. At least, she hoped he wasn't dying. There wasn't much else she could do if he was.

She pinched her eyes shut and rubbed her face, trying to pull herself together. She quickly regretted it when she realized she was brushing against all the scrapes on the side of her face from when she'd been thrown into the ground. She hissed and shook her hands as she grit her teeth, groaning at her own forgetfulness.

There was too much to think about, and she was too tired.

Horse. Alexander's horse.

Clandestine trudged out into the fields with only one thing on her mind: getting this horse back with her so she could go to sleep. She'd see if there were any useful supplies on the horse in the morning.

Gods, the morning. She didn't even want to think about the morning.

"Hey, there, horsie," Clandestine said as she started approaching it, trying to come at it from its side so it wasn't blindsided by her appearance. "Hey there. Yeah."

She noticed the horse seemed a little jumpy. She would be too if she'd just escaped from a raging fire that mysteriously disappeared along with her rider.

She approached slowly, talking softly as she approached.

"I really hope Alexander didn't train you to kill mages," she said, not sure why she thought that'd sound funny out loud. "Wouldn't that be weird? A horse trained to hunt. Horses aren't really built for that sort of thing but I wouldn't put it past-- well, you know. I shouldn't speak ill of the dead. I'm sure Alexander was super nice to you."

Clandestine found herself blabbing the whole way up, and she didn't know why, but it seemed to calm the horse down, so she kept it going.

"You know, it's a shame I don't know your name," she went on, gently and carefully reaching over its neck to bring its reins in front of its head to use it more like a lead line. "Then I'd call you that and we'd be building trust so fast. That's how it works, you know. You use someone's name and it does something to their brain. Makes them think you like them more to remember it. I know this because that's what happens to me when people say my name."

And with each passing word, the horse seemed to grow more and more relaxed. Clandestine couldn't help but wonder if this was something the horse was used to; a nonstop influx of one-sided conversation. In any case, it was working, and the horse began to willingly follow her as she gently tugged on the reins, leading it back to the others.

As she approached Billy and Elliot, the two horses regarded Alexander's horse with idle glances but were otherwise unperturbed.

"This is Billy," Clandestine said. "And this is Elliot."

She looked to Alexander's horse, pausing for a moment.

Now that the horse was in her care... it needed a name. She wasn't just going to leave it. That would be sad. But also, suspicious. If someone found a horse without a rider people would ask questions.

The horse was dark, like Billy. But Billy had a white star between his eyes, and this horse was just black.

"Would Midnight be too predictable a name for you?" Clandestine asked, finding herself slurring her words.

She was too tired for this.

"I'll name you in the morning," she said instead, taking a rope off the horse's saddle to tie to the bridle and attach to the nearest big rock she could tie it to by the stream.

She knew Billy and Elliot were too loyal to run away. But she didn't know about no-name yet.

Finally free from immediate pressing matters, Clandestine allowed herself to fade faster - or rather, let the exhaustion finally catch up to her.

With the last bit of her strength, she pulled her blanket off Billy's saddle and wandered over near Matt.

She threw her blanket out a few feet from him and flopped down, hoping that nothing would happen in her sleep. But she didn't spend any time worrying about what those things could be, because the moment her head hit her blanket, she was out.

Consciousness returned to him with the kindness of a wave crashing over him and tossing him onto the shore.

It took him a moment to register that anything was real. For what felt like ages, his mind took him through a maze of ever-worsening nightmares, each one more real than the last until they ultimately melted into the next.

But with every dream, he could never remember how it started, or how he got there.

This time, it came slowly.

A headache pierced through his skull, and for a moment, he wondered if it was the pain that woke him up, or if he merely woke up to the pain.

Then there was his shoulder. It felt bruised to the bone, and there was an ache that became more and more prevalent as the lumshade seemed to finally flush out of his system.

It was then that he registered the sensation of a breeze, brushing up against his bare skin. He was covered in sweat. And he'd been bandaged.

He was alive.

He forced his eyes open as reality came flooding back to him. Moments before he'd lost consciousness, he'd almost been swallowed up by flames.

He turned his head, first seeing the large circle of dirt that had been carved around him, and then a small fire pit dug deep into the ground. Behind the crackling flame and the small pot sitting over it was Clandestine.

The hearty smell of beans bubbling over the fire drifted towards him.

Several missing pieces started falling into place.

Somehow, Clandestine must've woken up before the fire swallowed them both. He didn't know how the fire was put out. He didn't know what happened to Alexander, or Elliot, or the just how much damage the fire had done. He didn't know how he ended up lying on the ground, face-up, not dead. But Clandestine...

She was the only reason he was alive.

James's mind felt like it was a bog, and he was walking through the thick of it.

What day was it? How long had he been out?

He shifted, drawing his hand over his stomach, finally registering that it was truly bare. He froze as it sunk in that Clandestine had to have stopped the bleeding while he was unconscious, meaning she would've seen all of his scars.

She was going to have questions. Gods, she was going to have questions either way, but the likelihood of them digging up unwanted memories got even higher. He tried to push down the panic that was starting to build in his chest just thinking about how to explain everything she's unknowingly gotten herself into. There wasn't an easy answer.

The summer heat managed to feel just as suffocating at night as it did during the day. Combined with the heat of the nearby fire and the burst of anxiety eating away at his nerves, he felt like he was burning up.

It hurt to move, but he tried to anyway. With his better arm, he started to push himself up, wincing and hissing through his teeth.

In the corner of his eyes, he watched Clandestine's head shoot up, watching him.

James looked over at her, and for a moment they simply stared at each other, faces blank as the fire crackled in the quiet of the night.

Now that James was upright, he could see the horses in his periphery. He glanced over at them, feeling a measure of relief at seeing Elliot, but it was countered by the sight of a different horse. If James remembered correctly, it belonged to Alexander.

"You're awake," Clandestine commented, sounding surprised. It took James a moment to actually process her words ans what they meant.

James still felt like his head was a muddled mess. He didn't think the lumshade was fully out of his system.

"Yeah," he said, far too delayed.

A silence fell between them as he kept himself propped up with one arm. Pain continued to shoot up and down his left arm and shoulder even though he'd stopped moving, and he didn't think moving it more would help. He clenched his jaw, trying not to wear all of the pain on his face and in his eyes. He knew that when he did, it usually made him look angry.

He stared out ahead of him. It was too dark to make out much in the dim light of the silver moon, and he couldn't really see far beyond the circle of light the fire provided for them, but he could hear the trickling of water nearby.

They were still by the stream.

But there was a nagging question James couldn't shake, especially as he glanced back at the bounty hunter's horse beside them.

He swallowed thickly.

"Where's Alexander?" James asked.

It almost felt wrong using the man's name when, in his gut, he knew that he couldn't have survived the bullet wound James gave him. That truth buried in his gut like a shared pain, melding with all of the guilt he always carried with him. Always present, never forgotten.

He didn't look back at Clandestine until he realized her hesitation. When he looked up, she was staring down into the pot of beans, her brows furrowed, and her eyes hidden in shadow.

"I buried him," she said quietly.

James felt his heart sink into his stomach.

So he was dead. And Clandestine was left to deal with the body left behind.

"I'm so sorry," James whispered. But sorry didn't feel like enough.

Clandestine seemed lost in thought, her eyes still fixed on the contents of the pot. He could see the hidden horror in her eyes, and he found himself wishing he could've warned her, back at the ranch.

Maybe if he'd told her he was a wanted criminal, she'd have never followed him. Maybe if she'd heard it from him, she would've left him alone and never felt obligated to follow and help him, subjecting herself to this.

Another long silence followed, and James looked down, feeling his headache begin to throb in his skull.

"He was going to kill me, wasn't he?" Clandestine asked.

James looked back over to her, and she met his eyes. The look in her eyes made his heart hurt more. It was as if she didn't have to speak the obvious, because they both knew: she was a mage. And though that might not have been the only reason for Alexander trying to kill her, they both knew it had to be a primary one. If not to get her out of the way, killing her was - in the eyes of the kingdom Alexander served - doing his duty, and the rest of humankind a favor.

"Yes," James said lowly, remembering how Alexander had very nearly stabbed her through the heart before James had intervened.

Clandestine nodded, her movements small and slow.

"Well," she said softly. "...Thank you. For not letting him."

James looked away.

"Yeah," he said distantly.

James felt like his head grew even more foggy, wondering how Clandestine would've buried Alexander in the first place. It was right that he was respectfully buried, but it had to have taken a while, especially since, to his knowledge, none of them had shovels. Which begged the question once more:

"How long was I out?" he asked.

Clandestine hesitated even longer this time. That had James worried.

"It's been... a day," Clandestine said.

A day. That meant James had been out for 24 hours.

He found himself staring at Clandestine, but his stare went through her, losing focus as he considered the gravity of their situation.

Clandestine hadn't moved him - or hadn't been able to move him - which meant they'd been sitting ducks for a whole day, waiting for someone else to run into them out in the plains surrounding Bone. For all they knew, someone could be out looking for the source of the sudden, massive fire that erupted with the former sunset.

Unless, somehow, they were lucky enough that nobody noticed.

He still didn't know how long the fire even lived, or how far it spread.

Had Clandestine managed to put out so soon after it started?

"How much do you remember?"

Clandestine's question ripped James out of his own thoughts. He blinked, his eyes snapping back into focus on her. She looked like she was watching him carefully. The concern showed in her furrowed brow.

James looked down.

"Most of it," he said quietly. "I think."

Well, that wasn't exactly true.

"At least, before I was..." James trailed off as his gaze flicked down to his shoulder where the syringe once sat, impaled in his shoulder.

It still felt like it was there.

"That was lumshade, wasn't it?" Clandestine asked.

James glanced up at her.

"Yes," he answered.

"I thought people only used that on mages to knock them out and keep them from using their magic," Clandestine said.

James clenched his jaw briefly.

"It has several uses," James said stiffly.

"I know people use it to get high," Clandestine said. "And it used to just be a sedative."

A pause.

"They really should come up with a different name for all of its variants," Clandestine muttered, letting out a sigh. But then she looked back at him at full attention. "So you got hit with the sedative, then."

James didn't think he had to confirm that. He'd been out for a day.

"I wonder if he meant to use all of it," Clandestine thought aloud. "Or if it was just..."

She bit her lip, sticking a spoon into the pot to stir.

"What happened to the fire?" James asked after she trailed off into silence.

Clandestine glanced up from the pot for only a moment.

"Oh," she said with a nervous laugh in the back of her throat. "That. Yeah. I don't know if you'll believe me on that one."

James stared at her.

She was quiet for a moment, like she'd assumed that was enough for him to drop it, but he simply waited. When she looked up again and saw he was still watching her, she let out a weak laugh.

"Well," she said. "The wind wolves came back."

James's eyes went wide.

"But, uh. It didn't go how you're thinking. They didn't spread the fire. They actually... helped me put it out. I kept the fire from spreading, and they were able to siphon water from the creek up into the air, turning it into a spray. It... put the whole fire out."

James blinked.

Wind wolves.

"I thought you said they weren't..." James started to say, but he couldn't think of a way to finish that sentence.

"Clearly, their sentience comes with some measure of empathy," Clandestine said. "I guess that's new. I should add that to my monster book. Wind wolves care about putting out fires."

James didn't know what to think of that. All he knew of wind wolves were the stories where they caused people trouble. But maybe there was something different about this.

Or maybe there was something different about Clandestine. Maybe the fact she'd played with them endeared them to her somehow, but it required a higher level of intelligence for an intangible beast to deduce that Clandestine needed help putting out a fire.

And yet, he didn't think it was beneficial to consider the implications of intelligent beasts at the moment.

If the fire was out, that was one less problem. Alexander was buried. But that still left a lot of collateral damage. The fire undoubtedly left its mark, and it would be discovered eventually, along with Alexander's body. Even if Clandestine buried it, he highly doubted she'd been able to bury it deep, and it especially wasn't inconspicuous. Anyone would be able to tell that the hole matched the dimensions of a human grave.

They had to get out of here.

Clandestine abruptly turned around. James hadn't even realized she'd reached around for something behind her, but his attention returned when he found himself staring at a poster being held up in front of him.

He was looking at his own face.

Granted, it was a younger depiction of him. The wanted poster looked like it was one that had been issued five years ago, when he was in his first year on the run. Instead of the more rugged variations that had been issued in the later years, this one had a drawing of him when he was only 20, fresh faced, clean-shaven, and even still sporting the armor of the Moonlight Kingdom.

James swallowed, knowing that Clandestine must have found that poster among Alexander's things.

"I think they got your angry eyes down," Clandestine said, holding the poster beside her so she could look at it as well. She began to imitate the generally intimidating expression, though her version was far more exaggerated.

"They didn't quite get your chin right, though," Clandestine said. "Then again, maybe they did. Maybe it looks different under your beard. The beard's a good idea, by the way. People can look so different with a beard."

James wasn't sure what he'd been expecting when Clandestine held up the poster.

Interrogating questions, maybe. But not teasing.

"People still recognize me," James said distantly, and at that, Clandestine's amused grin quickly faded.

Though she didn't seem angry. She almost looked... saddened.

"Did you get hurt?" James asked instead, not letting her evade.

Clandestine sighed as she started scooping beans into a bowl.

"Of course I did," Clandestine said. "Not much when I caught up to you, since he hit me with that dart pretty quickly. But I did catch up to him for a moment when you got away, and we fought for a bit. It didn't last that long, and obviously he got away. He wasn't very nice."

Obviously, that was an understatement.

But it did make James feel guilty that she'd gone out of her way to help him for very few reasons, and that all she got out of it was bruises, pain, a dead man, and a wanted criminal she was now an accomplice to.

Though - perhaps now for the first time - it was possible that she could become wanted too if anyone was able to trace the fire back to her. But it would take some time for that to play out, and if they left before anyone found it, there wouldn't be much evidence pointing to her aside from a fire with mysterious origins.

James could feel that the following silence was more tense than previous. Clandestine seemed to sense that James was getting his bearings. Now that she'd openly admitted to following him all this way - going so far as to interfere in Alexander's pursuit - James could feel the pit in his stomach growing, and the anxiety tightening in his chest.

He didn't know if he was ready for this conversation, but he owed her an explanation.

"I..." he began, feeling trepid, as this was not something he'd ever had to do before.

Not like this.

Sure, he'd given bread crumbs here and there, but never the full story. He'd never been forced to explain everything - and he'd never wanted to revlive it, either.

"I didn't know Alexander personally," he said.

It was a start.

Clandestine tilted her head slightly, but looked down to scoop out another serving in the second bowl, waiting for him to elaborate.

"He was working on behalf of the kingdom," James said. "As one of their hired hunters. They're different than bounty hunters. They work in a more... official capacity. As emissaries of the king."

Clandestine hummed, and she looked up, now with both bowls in her hand, a spoon tucked into each. Briefly getting to her feet, she drew closer, sitting about a foot from him. She set one bowl in her lap and set the other beside him.

"So he was getting paid?" she asked.

"...Yes," James answered. He was still holding himself upright with his good arm at the moment, and his other arm still pained him. He leaned forward a little, wincing as he relieved his arm of bearing his weight and reached over to grab the bowl of beans.

He had to admit he didn't have much of an appetite, but he wasn't going to refuse the gift. And he knew he needed to eat to help flush the drugs out of him.

He set the bowl in his lap, swirling the spoon in the beans.

"He mentioned a former colleage of mine," James went on. "And... former friend. Back in the Moonlight Kingdom."

He hesitated, looking up at Clandestine.

Her mouth was full, but she was watching him expectantly.

"You probably already deduced that I used to be a soldier," James said.

"The armor on the poster kind of gave it away," Clandestine said through her chews. "But it also said as much. You know. After I read it. And, well, I remembered you after seeing the poster. I've seen them around for a few years. Never really gave it much thought until now. I never really expected to run into anyone famous."

James blinked.

"I'm not--"

"Infamous," Clandestine corrected.

James sighed.

"So, Matt," Clandestine said, looking like she was getting more comfortable. "Should I keep calling you Matt? Or do you want to be called by your real name, Tiberius Hemming? Not that I'd use your full name, of course. That's reserved for when I'm angry or when I want to be formal for a joke."

James hesitated.

"I don't have a last name, by the way," Clandestine said quickly. "So you'll just have to call me Clandestine when you're angry. Just so you know."

James found himself staring at her for a moment, still processing her first question. It felt needlessly complicated when he thought about how to explain the truth, but he supposed... he'd try.

"Tiberius isn't my real name either," James said, testing the waters.

Clandestine slow-blinked, spoon in her mouth.

"Are you trying to mess with me?" she said through her mouthful of beans, holding her hand over her mouth.

"No," James said. "I... I changed my name soon before I went into the army. But it's not the name I was given. And I only changed it for..."

James sighed again. This felt like too long of a story to summize into a few sentences.

"My real name is James," he said with a small huff. "James Hawke."

Clandestine looked like she was hurrying to finish chewing.

"James Hawke," she repeated after swallowing. But she sounded skeptical.

"I'm... I'm being honest," James said in earnest, unsure of how to earn her trust.

"Why don't you just go by that all the time? Why go by Matt if your... legal name with the kingdom or whatever is different already?" she asked.

James felt embarassed at the simplicity of the question.

"I..." he started. "I didn't want to risk it."

Clandestine hummed.

"I guess that makes sense," she said. "So. James, then. I guess I can do that. I'll have to stop thinking of you as Matt-Tiberius in my brain."

"Sorry if it's been confusing," James said, looking down into his bowl.

"I mean, I'm still really confused about a lot of things," Clandestine said. "I'm just trying not to pelt you with questions since you're like, waking up from what was basically a drug-induced coma and also we both almost died. So I'm okay if the answers come a little slow. No one's found us yet, so I'm hoping we at least have a little time to get our bearings. It'll be a lot easier for me now that you're not..."

She gestured at him with a circular motion of her spoon.

"...Unconscious," James finished for her.

"Yeah. That," she said.

She scooped up more beans, but paused before taking a bite.

"Speaking of," she said. "We really shouldn't stick around for long. But I don't know how I feel about you riding a horse at the moment. You look a little..."

She gestured at him loosely with her spoon again.

"I know," James said flatly.

"We've got another horse, by the way," Clandestine said, looking over her shoulder at the dark horse that stood next to Billy and Elliot. "It was Alexander's. I don't know what to do with it, but it felt wrong to just leave it."

James opened his mouth to respond, but found himself snapping it shut.

Two things just happened. One: Clandestine had lumped them together as a "we." Two: she'd implied that they should travel together - or would be traveling together.

"We," James repeated.

Clandestine's mouth was full again when she looked at him with a confused "hm?"

"You said we," James clarified.

Clandestine swallowed her food to speak again.

"Yeah. That's proper grammar, right?" she asked.

Either she was trying to be funny, or she really didn't catch on.

"Are you--" he started, but paused, letting out a deep sigh before he reset and tried again.

"Clandestine," he said.

"Oh, you're mad," Clandestine said quietly.

"I'm not mad," James said wearily. "I'm being serious. Look. I'm beyond grateful for everything you've done. You went out of your way, putting your safety and your reputation at risk to help me. I don't know how easy it will be for you to go back to a normal life after all of this, but you are not obligated to stay here and help me. I would never ask that of you. The life I live is one of constant wandering, and I always have to be on my guard. I don't want to drag you into any more--"

"I helped you because I wanted to," Clandestine interrupted sharply.

James hesitated.

"That..."

"Sometimes," Cladestine went on when he couldn't finish the thought. "People see someone in trouble and recognize they're a decent person, and then they decide to help. Sure, what I did was a little crazy. And I made a big mess of things by setting the whole valley on fire. But you have to be a little crazy to choose to be a monster hunter, and you have to be a little crazy to do what's right sometimes, too. Especially when it's scary."

James stared at her, having no response at the ready.

Clandestine's explanation felt familiar. It was like he was hearing the voice of his younger self - from five years ago - through her. The sentiment she shared wasn't one he'd lost entirely, but it had been one he'd lost sight of in his years running from the law, and all of the people who'd come after him.

Years of hiding and running had jaded him. He knew that much. But it'd been a long time since he'd heard anyone so plainly speak with so much confidence on the matter of taking action when they saw someone in need. Though it was a common thought many agreed with, few actually put it into practice, especially if it cost them greatly.

He'd dramatically put it to practice once, knowing it would change the course of his life forever.

Now he was here.

James blinked, realizing he'd made eye contact with Clandestine. He quickly looked away.

"What?" Clandestine asked.

James looked down and shook his head.

"Sorry," he muttered. "It's just -- thank you."

"It's just what?" Clandestine pressed.

"It doesn't matter," James said.

Clandestine was quiet for a moment, and then took another bite of beans, chewing as silence fell between the two of them, apart from the sound of the still-crackling fire and the distant chirping of crickets in the night.

James stared down into his own bowl, feeling the tension in his chest stew, making his stomach flip in turn.

Even though he tried to scoop up some beans, he couldn't bring himself to eat it. He was afraid he wouldn't keep it down.

"You said Alexander mentioned a former coworker," Clandestine said, breaking the lull.

James glanced up at her.

"A friend?" she added.

James swallowed.

"Former... friend," he said.

Clandestine's expression softened, and she nodded slightly.

"Are they the person who sent Alexander after you?" she asked.

James looked back down into his bowl.

"...Maybe so," he said quietly.

"Must've been hard," Clandestine said. "Did the fallout happen around the same time you, uh..."

"Yes," James said. "It did."

There were a few seconds of hesitation where James could feel Clandestine building up the gumption to ask. It had been the question they'd both been dancing around ever since he'd woken up. It was the question everything hinged upon - it wasn't just about a fallout with a friend. It was about why he was wanted in the first place. What had he done that resulted in all of this? Why were they here?

"What happened?"

It was quiet. There was light.


The sun had just begun to reach over the horizon, and as it painted the land with rays of gold, the fullness pouring through the shattered windows of the dilapidated ruins. Sweat dripped down the back of James's neck and stuck his clothes to his skin. The summer heat swum in the air with the sour smell of lumshade, and the metallic smell of iron and copper.


James stared down at his blood-soaked hands, and the bloodied sword in them.


Sweat and blood dripped into his mouth, down from his forehead. His vision blurred. The sound of his own panting breaths filled the room, and his heartbeat reverberated in his chest.


At his feet was a woman he didn't know, with a face he didn't recognize.


Descriptions of her spun in his head. Hostile. Dangerous. Tall. Strong. Vicious. Armed with fire. Her name was Verna. She was a mage. She was the leader of the resistance, the resurgence of mages fighting to take control. She was an enemy to the Kingdom, an enemy to human civilization. She was the opposition. She was the villain.


But as James stared at her lifeless face, lying on the floor, prone, in a pool of her own blood, all James saw was a human.


A person.


Something unstelling seeped into his conscience. Something he'd been fearing all along.


He could hear the shouts of Verna and her men in his ears again.


Intruder!


Lumshade!


Hold your breath!


James stood in the middle of the bloodbath, the bodies of mages strewn around him. He met Verna's lifeless eyes, for the first time letting all of the doubt sink in with a wave of horror.


In moments, a single smoke-bomb of airborne lumshade disarmed 20 mages of their magic and dosed many of them to the point where they were stripped of basic functions. People who had been framed as dangerous, evil, and overpowered were, in seconds, so compromised and vulnerable. The lumshade hadn't just brought them down to the same level as people without. It had dragged them lower. It had made them weak.


It hadn't been fair.


They were no more powerful than James. But James was the only one left standing. Because he'd released the smoke.


James released his grip on his sword, letting it clatter to the ground.


What fight was he fighting? Whose war had he won?


He stared down at his hands, getting lost in the pool of red that stained his skin.


An armored hand rested on his shoulder.


"Lieutenant Hemming," a familiar voice said firmly.


James blinked, turning his head.


Carter Haddon stood beside him. Splatters of blood streaked his brown skin, some still dripping down the angles of his face. Messy streaks of his dark hair fell out of his bun around his face, and he offered James a small smile behind his deep brown eyes.


"It's over," Carter said. "It's done."


James straightened his back, nodding stiffly before he lifted his eyes to see his troop on their feet.


"I daresay," Carter said, patting James's back. "I do think you've just made yourself a hero."

James stared into the dark expanse in front of him. Somewhere ahead of him was a field black with the ash of wild grass. Somewhere out in that field was another dead body, bloodied and likely buried with Clandestine's own hands.

He was tired of death. He was tired of the cost of war. The cost of everything.

But he knew that was not the world they lived in, and for everything, there was a price.

He could feel the attention of Clandestine pinned on him, waiting patiently as he tried to gather his thoughts in an answer.

"It started seven years ago," he finally said.

"Wow," Clandestine blurted before he could say anything more.

James pinched his brows together in confusion and turned to look at her, and she stared at him, covering her mouth like she was embarassed.

"Sorry," she said through what sounded like a mouthful of food. "I didn't realize you were that old."

James blinked.

"I'm 27," he said, not sure why he felt compelled to defend himself.

"Oh," Clandestine hummed. "I'm 25. Nevermind. You're younger than I thought. Sorry. Sorry," she started waving her hands dismissively, as if at herself and by way of apology. "I interrupted you. I started seven years ago."

She twirled her hand insistently, like she was urging him to move on not just for the story but to push past the awkward moment she'd unintentionally created.

Under different circumstances, James might've laughed, but he had to recollect his thoughts again. He let out a deep sigh.

"Seven years ago," he continued. "I was fighting in the Resurgence. We had been tasked to take down the leader of the mage's resistance; a woman by the name of Verna. We were following a lead that led us far north to the ruins of the former Burninghead Guild; one of the mage's guilds from before the Great War on Magic and they were destroyed. Our informant proved to be correct in that it led us to Verna, but it was ill intended. They led us into a trap, and out of my whole troop I was the only one who managed to narrowly escape. The rest of the 9 men were held captive amidst the ruins. For a few hours... I was alone as I put together a plan to rescue them."

It was difficult to separate himself from the memory in order to retell it. He knew there were many things he didn't have to say - he didn't have to describe in great detail how things were done or what it looked like after, but he could still feel the haunting memory seeping in like smoke. Purple, sickly, only bringing death with it.

It stung even more to be retelling this to a mage of all people. A mage who had helped him - saving him from a fate she didn't even fully understand all because she thought he was decent enough of a person to save.

But she didn't know him.

To the kingdom, he'd been framed as a hero, but he knew he was anything but.

The shame of his active ignorance and complicit part he'd played in the system that killed mages every day never ceased to sicken him, even being years removed from it. He could only imagine how this story had already begun to paint him - and rightfully so - as the soldier who had just as much blood on his hands as any mage hunter, and any other soldier who served in the kingdom's army.

He hated who he was. He hated who he'd been. He hated that there was nothing he could--

"You went in alone?" Clandestine asked softly.

James blinked again, his jaw clenching as he once again had to rip himself out of his head, bringing himself back to the conversation.

"Yes," he said quietly.

"There wasn't anyone else out there to help?" Clandestine asked.

"No," James said. And there was a part of this conversation that felt familiar, even rehearsed.

After it all happened, he'd had to have this conversation dozens and dozens of times. Over and over and over...

"We were too far from reinforcements," he said. "There was no one to reach out to. Not within any reasonable amount of time before something inevitably happened."

He steadied himself.

"It was just me," he said.

James noticed Clandestine had finished her food, and now set it to the side, giving him her full, undivided attention. She nodded solemnly.

"That sounds terrifying," she said.

She was trying to empathize. But all it did was make him feel even more guilty. He shook his head slightly, not wanting to travel down that path, knowing there was more story to tell and that they had other worries to address once they were done with this.

If this conversation would even end well. He didn't know.

He swallowed, trying to think of where to start again. But Clandestine seemed to choose for him.

"You went in, didn't you?" Clandestine asked, seeming to have already deduced the end of the story.

He supposed it wasn't too hard to guess.

He was still alive. So it had to end with him still standing. But that didn't account for the other soldiers.

"Yes," James answered.

But he still couldn't seem to bring himself to say more. For so long, it had felt like a dark secret he'd harbored for years - except it wasn't a secret. Not in the kingdom. It had been a heroic war story that people celebrated in and even congratulated him over - but that only ever intensified the horror of it all.

"Did you win?" Clandestine asked after another silence, her voice hesitant like a whisper.

And the question grated him, like sandpaper chafing against his skin. He found himself visibly frowning at the word win, no longer able to hide his own disdain at his own history and the way it'd been reframed for him. He hated how he'd lost control of his own story - how it'd been used as a political ploy, like one last hurrah at the "end of the war" that "ended" for the kingdom but continued to play out every day in the lives of mages who never had to stop fighting to stay alive.

There was no winning. There was only appeasement, at best, and the illusion of peace that veiled the fear and control keeping another wave of trouble at bay.

"100 years ago, the ruins had been a guild for mages," James said slowly. "I imagine that, before the calamity, when the buildings were intact, they were full of life. But those same buildings became their grave at the start of the Great War. That day, in those isolated ruins on that quiet morning... I stood on the final battlefield of the Resurgence. I saved my troop, but that place became a grave once more. For Verna. For her comrades I never knew the names of. And for the resistance."

James wasn't used to having to explain the story to someone who didn't already have an idea of what happened. The last time he'd spoken of what happened on that day, he was still in the kingdom. It had been five years since he'd let himself ruminate on it out loud, and five years since he'd let anyone else think on it with him.

The guilt was just as heavy as it was back then, but the shame was even heavier.

He could remember, once, one quiet morning, trying to explain to Carter why it had all disturbed him so deeply.

At the time, Carter had been patient with him. But looking back, James realized many of Carter's answers had been in favor to sweep it under the rug.

He'd been told it would just take time. Time to heal. Time to recover. Time to return to 'normal.'

But that was before...

"What changed?" Clandestine asked softly, causing James's eyes to snap back into focus.

He realized, now, that he'd been staring intently on the now lukewarm bowl of beans in his lap.

He glanced up at Clandestine, not sure he understood what she meant.

"What changed?" she asked again when the pause went on for too long. "When did you stop fighting mages? Did you quit after that?"

Something inside of him writhed as Clandestine clarified. She wanted to know how he went from being the man who'd killed the leader of the mage's resistance to one on the run from the law, the most wanted man on earth, and one who now, quite vehemently, hated the regime that he was a part of. Though, he supposed, even the latter had yet to be expressed in clarity. But it felt like... she was beginning to understand.

Otherwise, she wouldn't have asked when things changed.

But the problem was, things hadn't changed. Not right away.

Things had begun to shift internally, but his expulsion and escape from the army and the kingdom hadn't been immediate.

"I didn't know what to do," he said honestly, staring back down at the bowl in his lap. "It was like everything I knew - everything I worked towards... it didn't mean anything at all. Everything I'd given up just to be a soldier, and everything I'd ever fought for... I didn't believe it anymore."

But it had taken weeks for that horrifying realization to sink in. And by then...

"So if you didn't quit," Clandestine continued softly. "What happened next?"

James's mind had been in a haze. They'd moved the bodies away from the ruins, burying all but Verna, whose body was ordered to be preserved as evidence. Her body had been bound and hidden away in a bag, hauled out through the half-intact door of the dilapidated building and its decaying walls. All that remained were the bricks of the lower layers, and some of the rusting steel support beams. Behind the building's foundations, they'd all begun to dig.


Because, even in war, it was only right to put the dead to rest respectfully. And it was more respectful to bury the dead than to leave them to rot, lettting their bodies be picked apart by buzzards.


At least, that was what James told himself. He wondered if that provision was only to convince soldiers that they still had a piece of humanity left inside them, even after taking the lives of others, over and over.


He found himself wondering what that even meant - to have respect for the dead, if you were the one who killed them.


Why not have respect for the living?


He'd been digging for what felt like hours. Perhaps, it had only been one. He only stopped digging when he heard a loud thunk behind him. Turning around abruptly, he looked back at the other soldiers, all standing in half-dug-out graves, and saw a few of them gathered around one in particular. Their shouts carried over to him.


"I think I found something," Kirk said.


He'd been a friend once. His dark, curly hair was discolored with dust. He lifted his shovel, waving to James.


"Tiberius!" he shouted. "Get over here."


James hesitated, glancing down at his hands, now caked with blood and the mud of freshly dug-up earth. He looked to the dead body of the man beside him. The man's lifeless, half-lidded eyes stared up into the sky, still bloodshot from the smoke of the lumshade James had released.


James swallowed. He hastily closed the man's eyes and climbed out of the grave, leaving his shovel behind him as he ran over to Kirk.


Carter was there too, along with Hellen and Ingrid. Hellen stood with her hands on her hips, her full fiery red hair beginning to spill out of its bun. Ingrid was behind her, tall and stony, staring down into the grave Kirk stood in with her piercing blue eyes fixed on something at Kirk's feet.


James let his eyes follow hers, and he stared at the coffin, still half-buried, that Kirk had unearthed.


"It's a coffin," Kirk said, though they all could already see for themselves.


Some of the other soldiers had started to gather around, curiously looking down.


"It's just a coffin," Carter said, sounding disappointed, and weary. "Go back to digging."


And everyone listened, because Carter was the commanding General. But Kirk reached out, grabbing James's wrist as James began to turn away.


"Wait," Kirk said. "There's writing on it. It's not in common."


That made Carter hesitate, turning back around even as the others dispersed.


James stared down at the coffin, eyes unable to focus on the dust-covered engraving that was carved onto the front.


He glanced at Carter. Carter turned to meet his eyes.


"It's an unmarked grave," James said quietly.


It was unusual, but not impossible.


Carter seemed to mull it over. Then he nodded, pointing his chin down to the coffin.


James hopped down beside Kirk, kneeling by the coffin. He reached down, brushing the engraving with his fingers to clear away some of the dirt crusted in the spaces between the different characters.


James wasn't the only one who spoke multiple languages among them, but he probably knew the most. He understood, upon seeing the letters, why Kirk hadn't recognized the language.


It was a dead one. One that died along with several others during the calamity. He only recognized one character: one that he knew read: "dragon."

This whole time, Clandestine been watching James. There had been several hours where she'd had to leave him alone while she dug up Alexander's grave, but ever since she'd come back to rest, she'd been keeping an eye on him - not just to watch for movement, and obviously to see if he was alive - but to see what he'd do.

She couldn't lie that when she found the wanted poster in Alexander's things, it did make her think twice. When she'd first seen James as Matthew, she hadn't put two and two together. He'd changed up his appearance enough that he didn't hold an exact resemblance to any of the posters she'd seen, and she hadn't thought once that he could be the Tiberius Hemming that the whole world was looking for - that the kingdom was looking for in particular.

It made her a little more wary. She'd heard the rumors about the war-hero turned traitor. No one seemed to know anything for certain besides the fact he'd done something bad, but most people assumed he'd tried to assassinate the king.

And that still painted him in a more favorable light to her, if that was true. But she also knew that was only a rumor.

She really didn't know the full story, and she really didn't know what to expect.

James - if that really was his name (and she was inclined to believe him, but still admittedly skeptical) - had been surprisingly meek when he woke up.

She thought maybe it was the drugs. Or the pain. Or a mix of the two. It was hard to imagine the man as a war-hardened soldier, or even a killer, but maybe that was only because his wrath hadn't been turned to her. If anything, all she knew of him was that he seemed to throw himself into danger on other people's behalf more than anything.

But it sounded like he was that way even back in the army. It was just that, since then, he'd changed sides.

She was trying to understand him. And she noticed that, for moments at a time, he seemed to get lost in thought.

But she had a feeling it was more that he was getting lost in memories.

"There's... one more thing," James finally said after a long pause.

Clandestine tilted her head. It seemed like he wasn't finished telling his story like she thought.

"We didn't leave the ruins right away," James said. "We were burying the dead when we... accidentally dug up a coffin."

Clandestine stared at him.

"A coffin," she repeated.

"Yes," James said stiffly.

"Were you digging up graves in a graveyard? How'd you find a coffin?"

And why was it relevant?

James seemed to get flustered by the question, letting out a small huff of breath, like he was frustrated, or at a loss of words to explain.

"There were no indications that anyone was buried there," James said quietly. "It was an accident on our part. But it was-- it was unusual. The coffin was perfectly preserved and though it was dirty from being buried, the wood showed no signs of aging. Which-- there's only one tree with wood that never ages--"

"The lifeblood tree," Clandestine said, her eyes widening as she stared at James even harder.

But those trees were extinct now, as far as she knew. The last one that got chopped down was by Silva...

"--yes," James continued. "Which meant that the coffin was specifically made for preservation so whoever was inside wouldn't decay. But it was more than just that. There were markings on the front of the coffin in a dead language - one that I couldn't read in full, but I was able to translate one of the words, only because I'd learned it from old texts because I--"

James closed his eyes, shaking his head like he was shaking away a thought.

"It said 'dragon,'" James said, looking to meet her eyes.

Clandestine froze under his stare.

Dragon.

The needle pierced into Clandestine's arm with a shock, and she couldn't help but stare at Silva, wide-eyed, as confusion finally began to mix with fear.


Silva had led Clandestine into her potion room under the premise that she was going to tell Clandestine something important, but Clandestine had already overheard some of Silva's conversations with the strange woman who'd come to visit in a hurry, eavesdropping through the door.


The visitor said Clandestine was an inheritor. Clandestine didn't know what that meant. The conversation had been muffled and much of it had been hard to make out, but she kept hearing the woman say: "I just know. I just know." And over, and over: "You have to keep her safe."


But this didn't feel safe.


"Ow," Clandestine said quietly, reaching up to rub her arm, looking to Silva with her brows pinched in pain and worry. "What was that? What are you doing? What's going on?"


Silva rested her hands on Clandestine's shoulders and stared into her eyes, intensely urgent. Clandestine could feel Silva's sweaty palms making her hands clammy, and Silva's dark eyes seemed severe, and focused. Clandestine had never seen Silva so distressed. She'd always been so collected and calm. But this was... this felt out of character.


It made Clandestine anxious.


Her heart was starting to race, and she was beginning to feel lightheaded.


"Everything's going to be alright," Silva said, her words slow and melodic.


Clandestine tried to pull away, but her head was starting to spin.


When had the shelves of plants, vials, and boxes behind Silva become blurry? She blinked, but they didn't come into focus.


The world around her was starting to spin.


"What did you...?" Clandestine tried to ask, but consciousness was leaving her quickly.


"I'm so sorry," Silva's voice melted overhead, dripping in her ears like ore. "Please remember all of this is to protect you. All of this is to..."


But that was the last thing she heard, before the walls of a coffin closed around her, and it all went black.


Clandestine couldn't move.

No. This was... no. It couldn't be.

"Clandestine?" James asked, his voice far away.