Dorian lay on the hard-packed earth with his cheek pressed into grit and the taste of iron at the back of his throat. He was not unconscious, merely reduced to fewer, less cooperative parts. The brand in his arm pulsed like a second heartbeat. His back burned raw. When he drew breath, his body answered with a slow, offended tremor.

  Around him, the Ash Ravens waited. They did not hurry to rescue him from his choices. Heat and pain had sealed the rite. What followed belonged to him alone.

  Dorian shifted his fingers against the earth and managed a small lift of his head. His vision swam. Firelight doubled.

  Then Toren was there. He dropped to his knees, fast and silent, as if the Steppe itself had thrown him forward. His hands hovered above Dorian’s shoulders, suspended between instinct and discipline.

  “Do not,” Dorian rasped, “look at me like that.”

  Toren stilled. “Like what?”

  “Like you are about to do something reckless.”

  Toren’s hands settled at last, one at Dorian’s shoulder, one near his ribs, careful of the fresh welts. His touch was warm, grounding. It tightened something low in Dorian’s stomach that had nothing to do with medicine.

  “I am not the reckless one,” Toren said.

  From behind him, Liana’s voice cut through. “He is alive.”

  Dorian exhaled sharply, the sound almost a laugh. “Technically,” he murmured, “I remain operational.”

  Toren ignored the comment and leaned closer, studying his face for signs of fading. Dorian stared back, half-lidded, determined to remain inconveniently present.

  The Ash Ravens moved at last. Two younger ones lifted Dorian without ceremony. They carried him to the low clay house set aside for travellers and lowered him onto a mat. Toren adjusted Dorian’s shoulder so the weight settled evenly. Dorian’s breath caught. Toren did not apologise. He adjusted again until the rhythm steadied.

  A young Ash Raven woman entered without knocking. Her eyes were steady and unyielding.

  “You heal?” she asked in the common tongue.

  “Yes,” Toren replied.

  “Salt and ash stay till morning.”

  “It will burn all night.”

  “It should.”

  She handed him a small jar of dark oil. “Bud oil. A few drops only to pass the night. In the morning, you clean and heal. Not before.”

  Dorian murmured, eyes closed, “I am glad we have agreed that my back is none of my business.”

  After she left, Toren tipped a few drops of oil to Dorian’s lips. The effect was swift. Dorian’s breathing eased. His brow smoothed.

  “Did I say anything…” Dorian whispered.

  “What?”

  “Embarrassing. During the performance.”

  Toren’s mouth twitched. “Not yet.”

  “Excellent,” Dorian murmured. “Give me time.”

  He slept.

  ***

  Liana and Toren kept watch in turns. Liana stayed until the sky paled. She disliked the new feeling settling in her chest. Appreciation for a posh inconvenience. And something dangerously close to respect.

  At dawn she nudged Toren’s shoulder. “Your turn.”

  She crossed the room and dropped onto the mat. “Wake me if you need help.” Within moments, she was gone.

  Toren sat alone beside Dorian as he slept. He stared at the grey crust pressed into torn skin and felt anger rise, clean and bright. Not at the Ash Ravens. They followed their law. The anger was for Dorian. For agreeing too quickly. For standing there without asking the cost and still managing a trace of sarcasm.

  He checked Dorian’s pulse again. Steady. It should have reassured him. It did not.

  Dorian woke like a man returning from a long argument with his own body.

  “Good morning,” he rasped.

  “How do you feel?” Toren asked.

  Dorian took a careful breath. His back objected. His arms objected. His existence objected. Then a small, unappealing smile appeared.

  “I feel,” he said, “like I have been accepted into a charming community that expresses trust through violence and seasoning.”

  “You got your feather.”

  “Yes. Apparently I am now officially branded.”

  “Do not move too much.”

  Toren held water to his mouth. “Drink.”

  “Is this an order?”

  “It is advice.”

  Dorian drank slowly. Toren watched the effort in every swallow and felt an unwelcome flicker of something that was neither anger nor fear. Dorian was trying to remain composed. He always was. It was infuriating. And quietly, dangerously attractive.

  When the cup lowered, Dorian stayed still for a moment. “I require a brief negotiation with my body.”

  Toren blinked once. Then understood.

  “You cannot walk far.”

  “I can walk enough.”

  Toren pretended not to hear. He slid an arm carefully under Dorian’s shoulder and helped him sit, then stand. They moved outside toward a screened corner set aside for practical needs.

  “I am capable,” Dorian muttered.

  “I know,” Toren replied. But he did not let go.

  Toren’s hand moved on instinct to unfasten the trousers.

  Dorian raised a brow. “Trying a new treatment?”

  Toren froze. “That isn’t… I wasn’t…”

  “Excellent,” Dorian murmured. “I feared for your patients.”

  For a heartbeat too long, Toren’s hand had slipped lower than intended. Heat rushed to his face. He pulled back too quickly.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  “I did not…”

  “No,” Dorian said calmly. “You absolutely did not.” Then, he added softer, “Thank you. I will manage the rest.”

  Toren turned his back, suddenly very interested in the opposite wall.

  ***

  Back inside, Dorian lowered himself with a slow exhale. Toren brought water, cloth, and herbs.

  “Do not move,” Toren said.

  “I am considering retirement from movement entirely.”

  Toren ignored him and studied the hardened salt and ash pressed into torn skin.

  “Thank you,” Dorian said quietly.

  Toren did not answer. Dorian’s hair was close, carrying the faint scent of clean oil, dust, and something beneath it that Toren could not name. He steadied himself and pressed the damp cloth to the first welt. Dorian stiffened. The salt had dried hard; lifting it pulled at raw flesh.

  “You may swear,” Toren said.

  “I am conserving energy.”

  When the wounds were clean, Toren moved Dorian onto his stomach and placed one palm against the earth. Toren’s breathing deepened. He drew power from the ground and laid his other hand against Dorian’s back. Heat followed, dense and steady. It sank into torn skin and swelling muscle. Dorian exhaled before he meant to.

  Toren paused, gathered himself, and drew again. The worst of the pain dulled. The tightness eased. With each attempt his pauses lengthened. His fingers began to tremble.

  “Toren,” Dorian said.

  No answer. Another weaker pulse of heat followed.

  Dorian pushed up on one elbow and caught his wrist. “Enough.”

  “One more,” Toren said, breath strained.

  “No.” Dorian held his gaze. “I feel nearly fine.”

  “You will exhaust yourself,” he added. “And Liana will finish what the Ravens did not.”

  Toren’s mouth twitched. He withdrew his hand from the earth, the magic thinned in the air. Dorian released Toren’s wrist slowly.

  “You have done enough,” Dorian said.

  Toren studied the reduced swelling, the calmer breath.

  “Nearly fine,” he murmured.

  Dorian eased upright, testing the movement. It hurt less.

  “I prefer nearly,” he said. “It leaves room for improvement.”

  Their eyes held. Neither looked away first.

  ***

  They rested until afternoon, when the same young Ash Raven woman entered without knocking. She let her gaze settle on Dorian, who looked better than she had expected. Then her attention shifted to Toren, and something like approval flickered in her eyes.

  “You heal well.”

  Toren straightened slightly, caught off guard. “I try.”

  Without any change in her voice, she added, “The Ash Ravens will see you.”

  Dorian’s mouth twitched faintly. “They miss me already.”

  “They did not finish.”

  Dorian pushed himself upright and tested his balance. Pain flared, but he held it. Despite his protests, Toren helped him dress properly. The corset and brass arm were left behind.

  ***

  On the way back to the communal fire, the settlement felt different. Raven Kin stepped aside as Dorian passed. A few younger Ravens inclined their heads.

  “Mirror Raven,” one of them said. The name moved quietly through the air.

  Only the Ash Ravens and a handful of the young waited near the fire. No crowd this time. Dorian was guided forward.

  “Mirror Raven,” the oldest Ash Raven said. “Sit.”

  A soft mat had been laid before them. Dorian lowered himself without comment. Toren and Liana remained slightly behind and to the side, close enough to reach him.

  A pipe was placed in Dorian’s hands. It was old, its stem carved with a raven’s head, the bowl darkened by long use. The scent was familiar at first. Sacred bud. Beneath it, something sharper. Earthier.

  “And the button,” Toren murmured under his breath.

  The Ash Ravens watched without explanation.

  Dorian inhaled. The smoke moved slow and warm through his lungs. The first pull was bud alone. Dorian’s shoulders loosened. The edges of pain softened. The brand throbbed, then dulled. He drew again, unhurried. No one rushed him. The rite moved at its own pace.

  The chant began before the smoke had fully settled in his lungs. Low. Layered. Not loud. The Ash Ravens spoke in dialect, voices folding over one another. Calling. Inviting.

  Toren caught fragments. “They ask the oldest raven,” he whispered to Liana, “to accept him.”

  In time, the button began to take hold. Dorian felt the shift behind his eyes first. The firelight thickened. The air stretched. His hands seemed further away than they were. His pulse climbed, then dropped into something slower.

  The chant deepened. The oldest Ash Raven stepped forward and laid a hand briefly over Dorian’s brow.

  “Open,” he said.

  The old bird Dorian had seen the previous night landed before him, the white mark over one eye stark against its grey feathers. The branded feather on Dorian’s arm burned suddenly, sharp and deep. His eyes rolled white and his body slackened.

  Toren hesitated, unwilling to break the rite. The oldest Ash Raven spared him the decision, “Healer. Hold him.”

  Toren lowered Dorian carefully, bracing his shoulders. Dorian’s breathing changed. Not shallow. Not strained. Elsewhere. The last thing Dorian felt of his own body was Toren’s hand at his ribs. A thought flickered, inappropriate and vivid, sharpened by altered perception. It vanished as something vast and feathered tore upward through him.

  The ground dropped away.

  ***

  He was not in his body. He was above it.

  Wind. Cold, clean air burned Dorian’s lungs. The pull of muscle not his own. Wings cutting air. He did not see the raven. He was the raven.

  The Steppe spread wide beneath him. He flew south first. The land shifted from open grass to harder ground. The border between Steppe and Forest came not as a line but as a thickening.

  The raven circled twice. Dorian searched instinctively for mirrors. He saw none. Only felt a thin Mirror Call.

  The bird turned.

  The Forest rose beneath him, dark and dense. The canopy swallowed light. The raven dipped lower. Something below flickered. Not glass. Not surface. The Mirror Call sharpened, stronger than before. Then it was gone.

  The raven shifted direction and followed the river. Water flashed silver between trees. It widened. Narrowed. Widened again. The raven did not hesitate. Dorian followed the current as if it were a road. He tried to remember as many details as his mind allowed. It was nearly impossible. All the way, a cleanness stayed with Dorian, as if everything had just been washed.

  Inside his mind, something settled.

  Follow the clouds. Follow the water.

  It was not in a common tongue or any local dialect. It was in pure reflective language.

  The river broadened into a slow, wide stretch broken by low islands. Sand and stone. Thin trees clinging to edges. The bird circled three times.

  There.

  The Mirror Call struck hard enough to feel almost physical. It was not visible. Not truly. But it was present. Deep. Buried. The strongest yet.

  The raven held the circle longer, banking wide, then tighter.

  Dorian fixed what he could in memory. The bend of the river. The shape of the islands. A cluster of trees leaning west. Light breaking through cloud.

  Rain began without warning. Hard. Sudden. Dorian flew straight into it. The world blurred. The way back fractured. Direction dissolved. Forest thickened. Steppe thinned. Dorian tried to hold the path in his mind. It washed away.

  Darkness came too quickly. He could no longer tell where they were. Then the ground rushed up.

  ***

  Dorian gasped and dragged smoke into his lungs instead of wind. His eyes snapped open. Evening had fallen while he was gone.

  He was lying on the mat. Toren’s body was warm and solid behind him. An arm lay firm across his chest, another braced his shoulder as if anchoring him to the earth. At some point they had shifted from sitting to lying. Dorian had no memory of it. Toren’s breath moved steadily against the back of his neck. The faint scent of crushed herbs clung to him, sharp and clean beneath the warmth of skin. A blanket covered them both. Liana sat nearby, watching quietly.

  Dorian’s head felt split.

  “He returns,” said one of the Ash Ravens.

  Dorian tried to sit. The world tilted violently. Toren tightened his hold.

  “Slowly,” he said quietly.

  Dorian swallowed. The taste of iron returned.

  “How long?” he asked.

  “Hours,” Liana replied.

  Dorian closed his eyes. The river remained. The islands. The call. He could not yet separate memory from illusion.

  A Raven woman stepped forward and handed Toren a small cup. The liquid inside was dark and pungent.

  “For the mind,” she said. “He must empty.”

  Dorian looked at it suspiciously.

  “You will hate it,” Toren said. “Drink.”

  Dorian drank without comment.

  The taste was foul. Bitter root and something metallic. It burned down his throat. For a moment nothing happened. Then his stomach revolted. Toren rolled him to the side just in time. He retched hard onto the earth beside the mat. The first wave left him shaking. The second was worse. With each purge, something cleared. The pressure behind his eyes eased. The trembling lessened.

  When it ended, Dorian lay still, breathing hard but steady.

  “Better?” Toren asked quietly.

  “Yes,” Dorian said hoarsely. “Delightful.”

  ***

  Later, when the fire had burned lower, Dorian, Toren, and Liana stood before the Ash Ravens and inclined their heads.

  “You showed the path,” Liana said.

  The oldest Ash Raven looked at Dorian. “You followed.”

  “The Loteri thank the Ravens. Mirror Raven stands with them,” Liana continued without looking at the exhausted Dorian, who was trying to stand straight beside her.

  They were dismissed without ceremony.

  ***

  Back in the clay shed, Dorian sat carefully. His head still throbbed, but the pain was manageable. Toren knelt behind him and pressed warm hands lightly against his back, drawing a small measure of the earth’s strength. The healing was brief and controlled.

  When Toren withdrew, Dorian remained seated, staring at the wall as if it might rearrange itself into riverbanks.

  “Well?” Liana said at last.

  Dorian closed his eyes and forced the fragments into order. “Some. I will try to recall them. The border first. Steppe to Forest. The pull was there. And Ashen Valley. I recognised it.”

  “And?” Liana pressed.

  “The river,” Dorian said. “The direction is clear enough. Something is buried there. A mirror, if it still counts as one.”

  “Do you remember details?” Liana asked.

  “Some,” Dorian repeated. “Not many.”

  “We should start with the border.” She was already mapping the route in her mind.

  Dorian considered that. “Yes. If we follow the path, we might increase our chances of finding a trace.” He added quietly, “Mirrors, if I am lucky.”

  The path had been shown. Now they had to walk it.