Thoughts, prospects, and possibilities riddled Risens’s mind as he opened the portal back to Windwake. Without a word or another look, Mother Raven slipped through the doorway, disappearing as if she had never stood before him on the grassy plain of the peculiar floating island.

  Alone at last, the crushing weight finally landed on him. His gifts, the skills offered to him had continued, altering his life again within a matter of breaths. His path had never strayed from that of the unquestioning, dutiful killer. Blades, bows,and his hands were his tools of choice. That magic was now inserted into his repertoire was as unexpected as it was undesirable. His opinion of the magi had never drifted far above that of the common noble, finding them both severely abominable. Nobility desired more than they had, sneering at those around them like urchins to be used or tolerated. The magi walked with a dangerous air of superiority, their coveted craft held in higher regard than any of the skilled trades. They controlled that which others could not, and that elevated them to a position of presumed dominance.

  Many of those who plied mundane trades, who bore the various Brands that denoted the mastery of their various crafts,had likely devoted as much time and effort to the learning. Those who hefted the hammer or swung a pick had assuredly dedicated no less sweat to their training. That those without means were rarely granted the opportunity to grasp at the haughty profession of the magi only reinforced their disparate beliefs.

  Risens’s newly acquired arcane skills left him feeling shallow. He understood the advantages that they would provide, but somehow, the sudden change, or at least the realization, felt tainted.

  Perception, ingrained in him for decades, would likely take time to change. One was not meant to believe that light was dark and silence was noise by mere words alone. This was a skill whose use would benefit the whole of the Kingdom.

  Closing the portal with a single gesture, he shook his head. Perhaps, he had disproven his entire line of reasoning. Through a process he failed to grasp, the Quillkey was bonded to his skin, yet the portal’s creation was anything but natural. Tearing the fabric between two realms was not accomplished by physical prowess alone.

  Temporarily shaking off the thought, he surveyed the small field and the rundown house. Though the crude borders were there, he expected he felt like a sculptor, eying the stone they were about to carve into the image of his or her desire.

  Mother Raven had explained that this was his world to alter as he saw fit, though at present, he had no idea what he would do. Gardens of some sort would prove advantageous, both for sustenance and materials to be used for mageVials and tinctures. He knew of one healer in particular who could help him grow the plants. Tawny had demonstrated an impressive understanding of the flora and fauna and their properties.

  Beyond the gardens and the grounds, the house itself would require significant work. The holes in the ceiling would need mending, and the interior some level of functionality beyond its current ramshackle state. Risens had few belongings to call his own, though a visit to his personal armory in the castle would never hurt.

  The castle.

  His private wing. The thought of the small rooms he’d called his own for the extent of his remembered history brought anunforeseen frown. The evidence was there, yet he needed further proof that King Lathrenon had ordered his death in the mountains. Even so, he was duty-bound and would still return to the castle to report as expected.

  He would be far stronger, far more prepared when he returned. Beyond a trap or a direct assault by Magus Pol, there was little he feared in the castle. The assassins that had been set on him—whether the King or others had given their orders—had all failed. There were none he knew of who could match his skills. With the addition of his Brands, he was certain.

  The thought caused a bubble of revulsion in his gut. He strayed dangerously close to falling into a trap that had never troubled him before. Arrogance was a trait that generally ended the lives of the assassins who followed its call far earlier than those who chose the path of humility.

  Destra, the outgoing killer who’d accompanied him through Breakker’s Pass, seemed to be a rare exception to the rule. Risens knew too well that the bubbly personality was a carefully crafted, lethal act. Beyond the snide remarks and sarcasm was an exceptionally skilled, resourceful, and competent assassin.

  Risens had survived multiple attacks on his life over the last few weeks. Though the direct orders for his assassination on foreign soil could be laid at the feet of King Lathrenon, the others had an entirely different feel. Both the attack in the hedge maze and the ambush inside the discrete shop had relied on mageVials of exceptional quality. The improvised glass devices were common, though the coincidences were too convenient to overlook. Whether the Dreamcatchers were connected to The Hunt, he had no knowledge, though he intended to find out.

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  Mother Raven had noted that time in the Barren worked similarly to in the Roost. He could linger here while Windwake would remain frozen in time. Not a breath had passed since he’d crossed the inky blackness of the doorway to this realm. Since departing the castle for Shial, he’d not had a moment of unoccupied time. He reached into his breast pocket removing the small tome and collection of documents he’d secreted away.

  Seating himself on the edge of the broken steps, he removed the pages torn from the Dreamcatchers’ tome, which he’d pilfered from Lady Myrenas’s estate, and the cipher provided by Fendri. His heart rate increased as he read the title scratched across the top of the parchment.

  Rightmaker.

  Risens anger only intensified as he worked through the simple yet time-consuming cipher. With disturbing clarity, the stolen pages chronicled many of his illicit, shadowed feats throughout the years. The silent blades of the King screamed at him from the pages almost as loud as the Raven Talons. That eyes had potentially tracked his coming and going through the hedge maze’s hidden entrance sent a shiver down his spine. The location of the windSteps near Adalhard’s Bank of Tomes was documented, noted to be inside the specific building owned by the crown. The scope and accuracy were disturbing.

  The Dreamcatchers, it seemed, were far better informed than he’d known.

  The leak was far wider than he ever could have imagined. Far more compromising than he ever could have dreamed. Small details and facts had a way of seeping out, though mostly were confined to rumors, neither confirmed nor denied, only monitored from the shadows. The sheer wealth of information contained within these pages boggled his mind. He did not doubt that others beyond the Lady Myrenas were informed. That none had let slip details was astounding.

  Scrolling through the pages, his anger mounted. From a festering annoyance, it swelled into a seething rage that boiled the blood in his veins. Seeing names in print, cataloguing their connections, faces flashed to life in his mind. Some were partially concealed with disguises to shield their identity, while many of the others were locked into terrified, agonized expressions and splattered with their own lifeblood. Both trainers and victims. He remembered them all. Now he knew them by name.

  To a man or woman, his marks had all been deemed guilty, traitors to Halthome and the crown. It was by the unquestionable orders of King Lathrenon that their fates had been sealed. Locations of those assassinations were detailed, focused entirely on Risen’s campaigns within the city and adjoining districts. There were plenty of other gaps in the events that shaped his life. Of those contained on the coded pages, if even a handful were to be revealed, the repercussions to king, crown, and country could be catastrophic. That dozens of them were described in relatively accurate detail was frightening, though likely hundreds remained unreported.

  He was surprised that no mention of his anointing as the infamous—although entirely fabricated—Lord Markin was listed in the documents. Somehow, his blades were never implicated in the murder of the Duke nor masquerading as his seldom-seen, fictitious son.

  It seemed that some secrets remained safe from being chronicled in ink on parchment.

  He unclenched his fists, noting the sting from where his fingernails had burrowed into his palms. Whatever source or sources had been tapped had even chronicled his actions down to specific injuries he’d sustained. Broken legs as a result of an ill-timed leap while under the tutelage of Vagon. A wicked gash that nearly spilled his innards, hastily treated in the field after a misstep triggered a sentinel. It was one of his first forays on his own. His excitement and anxiety had caused the error. He was lucky to have survived.

  That one of his healers had been involved, whether intentionally or not, was confirmed. Through the fog of pain, he remembered the rough hands and deep voice of the man who’d treated him within the concealed clinic in his wing. The information Tawny provided would soon be useful.

  The man was a greater liability than he’d admitted. One that needed dealing with immediately.

  He felt sweat bead on his forehead as he reached the final passage in the document. The entry was small, consisting of only a few lines. There had been no mention of locations beyond the generous span of Windwake, so the name stood out—Hazelglen. He stopped reading, racking his brain for details. His upbringing had entailed far more than merely martial training. Risens was well-versed in politics, history, and locations spread throughout the Kingdom. It was a town he recognized by name alone. One little-known and erased by history.

  Hazelglen was, by all measures, a forgettable place. It was the definition of a sleepy backwater village, nothing more than a loose collection of a few dozen homes. He remembered the thin line of ink that struck the name from the official records. The village wouldn’t have garnered a second glance, nor his knowledge, if it hadn’t been within a dozen miles of the King’s holiday estate of Pearlview.

  The seldom-used castle was set on the pristine shores of the Sea Solace, hundreds of miles following the coast to the southeast of the city. The ill-fated settlement, existing just beyond the shadow of the castle, had been razed by fire at some point during Risens’s early childhood, at an age when he didn’t recognize or care. He doubted that more than a handful in Windwake were aware of it, so less would miss it. As such, the annals of its history and the cause of its demise were sparse. He did not know if anything was ever built over the rubble.

  Curiosity drove him onward, rushing forward to decipher every line.

  He let the cipher slip from his hands as he read the final passage. Clenching his jaw, he scanned the message a second and then a third time as he digested the words. The thrum of his heart pounded in his ears, a percussive rhythm he could feel radiate through his body.

  Risens let the air hiss slowly through his clenched teeth. With an intensity that threatened to light the parchment ablaze, he scanned the script once again.

  Hazelglen.

  Razed to consume the secrets. None lived to tell the truth.

  The shadow bears a name stolen from birth.

  Risens.