He’d never seen Fendri so angry. His animus for the irritating man conjured little sympathy from his young mind. Why had the King’s Stewart dragged him from the comforts of his bed in the dead of night? The day’s training session had beenexceedingly rough. His body—tended to by the surprisingly gentle ministrations of the fire-haired healer—had taken the bite from the agony, though the whole of him still ached.

  Why was Fendri rushing him now?

  Even so young, Risens’s training kicked in, his mind on high alert for any signs of traps or duplicity. The man’s actions were already clue enough to something divergent about this night. In addition, they tread upon an unfamiliar path. Thirdly, he had not even been afforded the time to dress in appropriate attire or to collect his gear. His bedclothes—all black like the uniform of his station—would be fine. Of course, he had secreted away a pair of small daggers on his person. The annoying errand boy to the King was far too ignorant to know.

  The sense of smell was the first to be alerted to the fact that something was amiss. The aroma of smoke was not unfamiliar in the castle, though there was a distinct undertone that lacked the usual pleasant fragrance of hearth fire or incense. A few steps ahead, Fendri plowed through a swinging panel of a hidden door without slowing. Risens darted forward before the painful wrath of the door’s inswing caught him off guard.

  The sight beyond brought his feet to a halt.

  Sprawled on a stretcher in the center of the innocuous vault they’d entered was a body, charred nearly beyond recognition. Much of the black clothing was gone; the exposed skin was scorched, bubbled, and torn, stained deep crimson with blood and black with soot. The leather armor looked brittle and flaky as it too had borne the brunt of the flames. The remains of a cloak, one which Risens knew instantly, though it was singed and torn, were wrapped over the dead man’s chest.

  He knew before his eyes confirmed from the facial features that remained, who had been returned to the keep.

  Vagon, his tutor.

  His mentor.

  His abuser was dead.

  Risens pulled from Fendri’s surprisingly strong grasp, rushing to the man’s side. For much of his life, he had hated Vagon. Never had a gentle moment mingled with harsh treatment that only begot more violence. He had been molded into the deadly image of the man lying still and burned before him.

  In the moment, he felt only strange detachment. He was neither angry nor sad. Death, he had come to know, was inevitable—attachment, a weakness to be exploited.

  Vagon was a wicked man, it was true. Still, he was nearly all Risens knew.

  Biting back the mistiness that formed, he placed his hands on the man’s chest. He cried out in pain, though it was physical. The armor was still scalding to the touch.

  ***

  Risens chanced a glance at Mother Raven as her command echoed in his ear. The expectation was clear, etched into the aged features of her face. Her skin, normally shrouded in the darkness under her feathered cowl, glowed with the flickering orange firelight. The warning was ominous, but he was no stranger to pain. Questioning the order was useless. The Brands that scarred his chest were proof of the validity of her words.

  Pain was a temporary price to pay for whatever power awaited.

  “Fool. Do not make us suffer longer.” The Raven Daggers made a playground of his mind, begging for fury, chaos, violence.

  Forcing the fluidity of his action, fighting against the natural hesitation and resistance that surged through him, he stabbed the blades into the fire. As they had done so many times before, though normally in the heat of battle, the Talons shifted their approach. The tips of their steel entered the blaze, angling downward into the glowing coals of the burning wood until they bit into the earth below.

  Risens had been burned before. The sting always lingered far beyond whatever salves the healers could apply. It seemed their skills at tending wounds, treating poisons, and mending broken bones were relatively useless against the torture of seared flesh. Perhaps, like a father whose child had been tempted by the lure of flame, they chose not to alleviate the pain, leaving it as a potent reminder and a lesson to be learned.

  What did he know of fathers?

  The sweltering heat on his exposed skin was immediate. He gritted his teeth as the warmth swelled quickly beyond comfort. He squeezed his hands tighter around the feathered grips, desperately forcing his mind to concentrate on something beyond the mounting agony. It was a battle he was rapidly losing, even in the first few breaths that the blades remained in the fire.

  Through squinted eyes, he peered down at the Raven Talons, pleading with the steel to heat. His knowledge of the art of blacksmithing was limited, though he doubted the metal would react quickly. Every breath that stretched on pushed his body and mind closer to the point of breaking. He dared not study his hands closely, knowing that he’d find his skin bubbling. Blood coursed up his arm, swelling, spreading the pain as it pumped from his heart. He wavered as he stood, and his brain threatened to shut down his body to protect its vital organs. Of all the desperate tasks he’d been assigned, this one, he knew, was hopeless.

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  He would fail.

  Risens hardly noticed the sudden flare of the fire, his mind focused on survival and on coercing his hand muscles to maintain their grip. The typical, expected red and orange of the blaze suddenly morphed to a deep azure.

  “Do not give in, you weak git.”

  Through the agony that clouded rational thought, the cries of the Talons were little more than a whisper.

  Risens gritted his teeth. His hands twitched as a force beyond his own clamped them to the handles of the blades. While he struggled against every instinct to let go, to find succor from the scorching heat of the fire, he found that he couldn’t have even if he willed it so. Where he forced his hold on the handles of the super-heated blades, an icy chill overwhelmed the sizzle. Like he was squeezing an icicle, his muscles, frantic and spasming, froze in position.

  Had he not heard the call of the blades, he’d have assumed it nothing more than the last of his nerves dying under the torturous abuse. The cooling spread rapidly over his hand, the icy cold of the blade melting the overbearing, searing heat. What remained in its wake was still heated beyond pleasantness, but manageable. As the cooled blood reached his heart, the relief was rapid. With every desperate beat, it rushed through his veins, spreading a tepid ease in the place of the molten liquid.

  With clear senses, he risked a glance at his ruined hands. The flames had ravaged his skin beyond recognition. Black and cracking, they smoldered as the blood oozed from within. The nauseating odor of burned flesh hung heavy in the air. Steam wafted, mingling with the smoke rising from the flue as the chill fought the blaze. Beyond the feathered handles, the sight of the blades, glowing orange, brought a palpable excitement amid the weighted discomfort.

  “Bring the Talons to the pedestal. Quickly, fledgling,” Mother Raven’s voice sounded foreign to his struggling mind, yet the urgency was palpable. He needed no further impetus to pull the blades, and by extension, his hands from the fire. The steel glowed bright orange, and the air around its edges wavered and distorted from the heat radiating outward. The moment they exited the fire, the deep blue flames reverted to their expected natural hues.

  On stumbling legs, he fumbled his way across the room to where the vessel remained. The act of merely crossing the several steps from the hearth to the pedestal set in the middle of the chamber was monumental.

  Mother Raven appeared on the opposite side, though in his present state, he had no concern over how she’d made the crossing.

  “The heated Raven Talons are the only item currently in existence that will melt the frozen tears,” she explained, haste still rushing her words. “Bury them as far as you can in the ice. Now.”

  Hope that the melting water would provide a measure of relief for his devastated hands drove the force of his actions. He needed no further incentive beyond the prospects of lessening the pain. Balancing precariously on faltering legs, he stabbed the blades into the ice.

  His action had been fueled primarily by the force of his teetering body. With little mental fortitude to correct the overbalance, he leaned forward, following the blades as they slid into the shallow bowl. The super-heated metal slipped through the solid block with only a hint of resistance.

  The crackle of melting ice swelled in volume as its timbre shifted from a natural hiss to an unholy scream. The tones ricocheted mercilessly through his skull, like echoes in an enclosed space. The force of it rocked him on his feet as his hands followed the blades, sinking completely into the smoothed holes the Talons had carved. The shock of the frigid water jolted him. Like a spark igniting tinder, images, fragmented yet startlingly clear, flashed through his addled mind.

  The floor was no longer covered by the thick layer of fog from the vessel, but a veritable sea of carrion. The gnarled forms of the beetles snapped a staccato rhythm that echoed like a taunt. The walls of the small house were splattered with a dripping ooze of black, steaming blood as he hacked through the masses that sought his death.

  His vision spun as his head rebounded from a blow to the temple. He snapped upright, struggling to focus on the vessel, desperately grasping for some sense of stability. Somewhere in the gore-filled vision, he’d toppled forward, striking the lip of the stone. The bowl was oblong, from this position, narrower than it was wide, and no more than a few hand widths deep. A small smear of blood now decorated the rim opposite where he stood.

  The Raven Talons had punched through the ice, descending deep enough that his wrists and the entirety of the handles were submerged in the frigid water.

  Risens could see little through the steam that poured from the melting ice. It plumed upward, outward, downward—all directions—concealing his view of the room. Through the veil, he registered only the broken silhouette of Mother Raven watching through the mists and the flickering orange glow that spread out from behind her like a halo. Beyond the vapors that clouded the air, a heavy fog poured over the edges of the bowl, spilling down the sides like a waterfall of smoke. It covered the floor in a haze thick enough that he lost sight of his boots.

  The image in his mind flashed back.

  A black, gore-splattered wall. He was running. It was preservation that fueled his steps. Under the hammering of his feet, vibrations of something thundered in pursuit. Rhythmic crashing sounds echoed behind him. Snapping timbers. Shattering stone.

  Sweat poured from his brow, dripping into the bowl as his focus again shifted back to the present. The melting spread rapidly as his hands plunged deeper into the water. Like a fire burns parchment, once the process started, it was only a matter of moments before the transformation was completed. Unbreakable a few breaths earlier, the block of ice was now gone, leaving a pool of frigid water and steam in its place.

  Through the haze, Mother Raven mouthed something unintelligible as she swung her arms to the side.

  Following her motion, an unnatural gust of wind snapped his cloak sideways. The haze of steam in the air and the thick blanket that coated the floor were likewise caught in the sudden blast. Like fanning away a cloud of smoke, it pulled up through the numerous holes in the ceiling, disappearing into the blackness above.

  Risens felt the piercing focus of Mother Raven’s gaze boring into him. The excitement and expectation that had colored her expression had yet to fade as she watched him closely. A small, unexpected grin puckered her lips.

  “It is done. Remove the Raven Talons from the vessel.”