He gritted his teeth. Certainly, he had guessed this day would come. He’d known it was almost inevitable. But now that it was here, he still wanted to find a way out. The air picked up around him, whipping angrily with his frustration.

Had Miara been right? If he had actually been able to free her, maybe it would all have been worth it. But he hadn’t. He’d failed. As it was, he was giving up everything. And she was still a slave. And now he would be, too. He had let down everyone—Miara, his parents, even his people.

They rounded the corner of the smithy, nearly to the door. With as little warning as he could manage, Aven spun away from the tall one in the direction of the fewest guards. He tried to direct the air in the tall one’s direction, but he wasn’t sure his magic achieved anything. It was not an ingrained instinct yet. His ability to punch someone in the face, however, was. He collided with the chest of one guard and made use of this skill. The guard was still too surprised to react, and he doubled over as Aven sprinted blindly forward.

Someone tackled him from behind, and they went down. He heaved to his left, seeking to roll over them and away. He did manage to roll onto his back, crushing someone, but the dark one was right behind him and seized him, two guards joining him quickly.

While two guards gripped either side of him more securely, the man in black robes studied him for a moment.

“I admire your spirited attempt,” he said, “but it’s really a waste. There’s no escape from here. Every mage is at my disposal to stop you, hundreds on all sides. Not to mention the guards, and that you’re in the center of Kavanar, where an Akarian such as yourself is not welcome.”

Aven narrowed his eyes. “I thought Akaria and Kavanar were at peace,” he said, snorting.

“Well, I suppose you’re about to find out firsthand the truth of that,” said the man, smiling darkly. “Bring him.”

The dark one motioned, and the two guards jostled him along, the tall one following. Apparently it was the tall one who had tackled him. Aven was not surprised. These guards seemed close to useless. They guarded sheep who couldn’t even choose to escape if they wanted to, so that was really no surprise. Didn’t mean he was getting away, though.

A hot, stale blast of air hit him as they entered the smithy. The ceiling was low, and ironically, the tall one had to bend to stand anywhere inside the place. Aven could see nearly a dozen blacksmiths working nearby, quite a large number for a smithy. One hearth stood empty but smoldered fiercely. It was there they seemed to be headed.

Instead of an anvil in this area, there was a table with leather bindings at the top and bottom. Clearly it was meant for a person rather than a sword.

One guard shoved him toward the table, and another grabbed his arm from the opposite side and sent him down with a thud. He kicked and tried to twist away from them, but he didn’t waste much energy in the attempt. The dark one was right. If there were an opportunity to escape, this was not it.

Leather tightened around his wrists and ankles, holding him fast to the table. Straps wrapped his neck and his chest, coming up through slits in the table and fastened underneath. One guard took a knife to his sleeve, quickly slicing it and ripping it away at the shoulder.

The tall one removed something long, thin, and metallic from his robes and put it into the fire. The dark one stood nearby, crossed his arms, and waited, frowning.

The part of the smithy they occupied was pitch black, not letting in even a ray of light from outside or a glimpse of an overcast cloud. The stars that were supposed to be his guide were a whole world away, as hard to imagine now as the Great Stone in Estun.

In spite of that, he closed his eyes. He saw Miara on her horse, the star over her shoulder that should have been her savior, if he had been good enough. If he had known more. He whispered a prayer to Casel, emitting no sound but moving his lips until suddenly the pain cut through the words. His teeth clenched, and he could only think the prayer in his mind.

Casel, my guide, my star, keep me free.

He felt the searing, hot pain on his own left shoulder. The twisting heat, the energy like sulfurous maggots boring into his skin. He ignored it and repeated his words again. Casel, my guide, my star, keep me free. Casel, my guide, my star, keep me free. Casel, my guide, my star, keep me free. He reached out with his mind toward the sky, away from his body, blocking out the leather cutting into his wrists, pulling him, holding him to the hard earth. He reached up, flailing blindly, his only way to fight the white-hot metal against his skin.

Did he feel that icy white energy on his forehead? Was it just his imagination? Desperate insanity? There was no space for logical thought, no energy to wonder at what the truth was in that moment.

Finally, the hot metal against his shoulder was gone.

The dark one’s voice. “It is done.”

“A few more words,” said another voice.

He could still feel the throbbing, the agonizing burn vibrating through his chest and up into his skull. Some kind of incantation was in the air—the tall one reciting something to finish the job.

He gasped for breath, realizing only now that he’d held it while the white-hot poker was touching him. Or maybe it was just the pain, or the shock.

He opened his eyes to see the dark one looking over him, studying him.

It was over. Aven was a slave now. And he always would be.

14

Scars

Sorin led Miara toward the healers in the east ward. A daze had settled over her. Perhaps those slashes on her back were deeper than she’d thought. Or perhaps it was everything else.

Aven was theirs now. And worse, they’d found out that he was a mage. Even after she’d tried so hard to keep it a secret, even from Sorin. Perhaps it would delay his death or even keep him alive. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? And how had that knight found her way here? By the ancients, how could anyone build a life around exterminating others? How could anyone convince themselves such a thing was right and holy?

And the one piece of the puzzle she had wondered about—had the Knight been in line to be his wife? Had they been betrothed or only in negotiations? How could he have even considered such a woman? It was ridiculous to feel jealous at a moment like this, when she’d rejected Aven at every turn and likely just delivered him to his execution—but she couldn’t help herself. Could there actually have been something between them? What if they had been in love? Aven had seemed so sweet, a bit naïve and innocent, but definitely an easy flirt—could it have all been a show? Could she have underestimated his charm? Perhaps he had only sought his freedom, and it had all meant nothing. Maybe he felt nothing for her, and she was a fool for falling for it, just as the Knight had been.