The Trillias Gambit: The Warminster Series, #3

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing a novel is not a solo effort, but instead is the definition of a team sport. Without a crew of supporters, contributors and other creatives, authors would be lost. It is to these unsung heroes I offer my eternal gratitude.

First, let me thank my family and friends for their continued support and encouragement. Andrea, you have sacrificed so much to let me chase down this dream. For that, I say again and again, I love you.

Secondly, I need to thank the rest of my Warminster team for helping make the series a success. To Dane Cobain, my literary compass; Gwen Gades, my patient publisher; Shai Shaffer, Abigail Linhardt, Katelyn Buschbacher, Sarah Brownlee and Brianna Toth, my beta readers and development sherpas; Larch Gallagher, my champion illustrator; Phil Athans and Pam Harris, my fantasy wordsmiths; Victor Bevine the voice of Warminster; Jan and Susan Dickler, my media giants; Ann Howley, Maria Simbra and Sarah McKnight, my JAMS session members; Auggie Tagabunlang, my social media guru; Hannah Nathanson, my poetess extraordinaire; Luke Bruss and Creator, for my coats of arms; Emily’s World of Design for my family tree, Cathedral flow chart and all of my cartography; Chris and Gabriel Ithen, the geniuses behind my merchandise store; Dave Prokopec and Aaron Smith, the eyes and voice of my book trailers; Todd Waites and Andy Jackson, my Twin Tales brethren; Henry Roi, my PR machine; my Professor Howley classmates; and of course my Dungeons & Dragons group, Brent Burich, Joey Davis, Chris Niziol, Markus Rauhecker, James Stefanyak, Jim Stillwagner and Kent Szalla.

Lastly, of course to you, my readers. I hope you’ve enjoyed your third trip into the Realm of Warminster, and I hope you continue your journey throughout the series.

PROLOGUE

Vengeance earned swiftly tastes bitter. It must age like a fine wine to taste justly.

—King Dragich von lormarck

INCANUS… STOP. THEY’LL HEAR.

Covered by the cawing of a passing crow, the whispered words of desperation didn’t disturb the serenity of the forest. The magpie circled twice before soaring off into the darkened sky.

They won’t hear me climbing over the distance, came the quiet reply, one that oozed with confidence.

But the bird, the second voice managed. What if that was Iris? What if—?

Fala, you worry far too much. Incanus grunted from his perch in the tree. That’s not my mother’s crow. And if it was, I’d feather it with an arrow before I’d let it return to her and tell our tale.

The young Bone elf knew his reply held little substance. His mother instilled fear into the hearts of everyone in their village of Bereslangum, including him. Killing her pet would only enrage her.

Fala shook her head, a scowl on her face. You are terrible.

He met her gaze with a forced but blank expression, attempting to ignore his heart thudding beneath his chest. He couldn’t stop a smile from spreading across his face, though he was glad it was not yet dusk so Fala couldn’t see him very well.

Never give too much away, he reminded himself.

A petite young Bone elf only a year younger than he, Fala possessed silken, jet-black hair, rare for their kind, and a smooth, pale complexion that softened him when he dreamt of kissing her neck. But it was her eyes that captivated him. They were almond-shaped, like that of a Raven elf, black as pitch, with flecks of silver when he looked deep into them. From the age of six, he’d been enchanted by Fala, developing a deep-rooted yearning for her over the years. One day she would be his. He would make sure of it.

The small cluster of trees they’d hidden in overlooked the concealed village of Bereslangum, a surface outpost of the Bone elves, tucked away deep in the Dragon’s Breath Mountains. In part, Bereslangum sprouted from a shallow cave system bored by the picks and awls of his forebearers. The caves surfaced near an overgrown grotto of white roses, twisted in briars and brambles too thick for passersby to dare to pass through. If any of the aldermen discovered they were there, there would be blood to pay. But Incanus wasn’t worried. He was too stealthy, too clever.

Your Rite of Investiture, muttered Fala, edging closer to him on the thick branch. They must be here for your blooding.

It’s not dark enough for the sires to be here, Incanus reminded her. But I can see a group of aldermen gathered in the grotto.

Is your mother amongst them?

His focus narrowed. Nay.

Do you think it’s time? She hesitated. Will it be tonight?

Incanus’s eyes flicked down to her, but he didn’t respond.

Are you nervous? Her brow knitted, and he could see concern for him on her face.

I am ready.

In truth, he was more anxious to pass the Rite of Investiture than nervous. He was one of the most skilled hunters in camp and perhaps Bereslangum’s best tracker, even better than his own mother. His blooding was overdue.

Fala shifted closer, perching next to him. Her hip grazed his, and in her gentle way, she reached for his hand. When she took it, he felt her quivering.

I will be fine, he assured her, trying to steal a look into her eyes.

Her mild character stirred something within him. She recoiled from melee practices where Bone elves would engage in hand-to-hand combat and she possessed a fondness for living creatures that, to him, only had one purpose: to be hunted and harvested. Such weakness was frowned upon in the Dragon’s Breaths. His people were not there to make friends or fall in love. They were bred by their creators, the Shadow elves, many centuries ago, to do their bidding during the lighted hours. They were designed to hunt and slay, and little more.

Deep in his heart, he knew she was not a hunter like him. But there were consequences to pay for those who did not follow the way of the sword. Bone elves who weren’t considered gifted enough to exist for the reasons they were bred had two options: marry a true Bone elf warrior for the purpose of breeding, like his father did, or meet a tragic end.

Fala would never pass the investiture, and Incanus knew it. But she wouldn’t have to if he did. He would demand her hand as part of his accolade of ascension, taking her as his mate, thus saving her from this test of tests. Some may think she had no choice, but he’d know better. They had a love, even if it was unspoken. And damn those to the Trials of Threnody if they didn’t believe them.

This is dangerous, she reminded him. Her body tensed. Please be careful if they come for you this evening.

Incanus turned back to the group of aldermen standing in the grove and offered her a kind smile. If they are here for my investiture, he said, then I shall pass their test.

Incanus… wake up.

At the sound of his mother’s familiar voice, Incanus snapped his eyes open to find her slouching silhouette leaning over him.

It is time for your blooding, his father’s voice came from somewhere behind her. You have the burning of one candle to prepare.

Their footsteps receded until the door closed behind them.

Incanus didn’t bother to reach for the small candelabrum next to him but instead slid into his leather armor in the near darkness of their den and buckled on his longsword. He reached for his longbow in the rugged corner of the cave and made his way through the narrow cavern halls where his parents were seated at the table, feasting on pigs’ ears.

Here. His father held a bowl out to him. You will need your strength for the ceremony.

Incanus took the bowl and began to munch on a crunchy ear. It was a near sacramental meal prepared for all catechumens, a name given to those seeking investiture before the rite of passage.

The three sat in silence, the noshing of their teeth the only sound in the cavern. For the first time, Incanus felt the pressure of the moment encroaching on him. Perhaps it was the evident tension in the den or his own nerves standing on end.

You are ready? his father mumbled, his mouth full of hog flesh.

Incanus nodded.

Do us proud. His mother rose from her seat, followed by her servant-husband, and both turned to leave the room. Come.

Bone elf parents rarely, if ever, showed affection for their children. Conversation was kept brief and limited, focusing on training or other duties, always with a distant target, the Rite of Investiture, for their offspring.

Incanus followed his mother through the rough-hewn corridors to the darkened skies of the surface world. The vastness of the Hall of the Ancients still shined down from the heavens above, the moon hanging low in the sky. He knew it would not be long before sunrise would come. Not only would he have to hunt, but he’d have to do it against the time of the rising dawn. He snorted in contempt at the needless trick and gripped the pommel of his sword as he strode.

His parents led him through the grotto, where they passed by the entrance of Fala’s den. His eyes darted to the cavern opening, where he knew he wouldn’t find her.

He looked anyway.

By this time tomorrow, he would be a hunter of the Bone elves of Bereslangum, and he could at last begin the life he had charted for them.

As they neared the training ground, his father stopped. Incanus turned a curious eye to him, but his father only offered an encouraging nod.

Keep moving. His mother’s tone was serious, and even tipped with a little fear.

The two proceeded into the open field before stopping in the center of the low grass. With a twitch, he glanced over to his mother to see her scanning the horizon. He turned and soon his elven eyes detected movement from a copse of trees and a cluster of jagged rocks. Shadows slithered toward them from every corner of the field, creeping ever closer.

At first, he looked up to see what creatures may be flying overhead, but as the mass of darkness moved nearer, he understood he wasn’t looking at a mere owl or giant hawk above. His fingers twitched, realizing the moment was upon him.

The Shadow elves had arrived.

Incanus strained against the urge to run from the encroaching darkness, but his mother stretched out her arm to stop him. The moving shadows encircled them before transforming in front of the pair. The darkness boiled and frothed in a primordial pallor, taking shape within seconds. Two Shadow elves now stood before them, their sunken faces emotionless.

It was the first time Incanus had seen a Shadow elf up close. Until now, he’d only heard the stories of their sires, told by the aldermen as folktales to scare the children of Bereslangum. He now knew the tales were more than just legends told to frighten or cajole. Their sires did live—or exist—in whatever form they’d taken in front of him.

Incalia, one intoned, addressing his mother.

The cold, raspy voice chilled Incanus’s soul, bubbling past his ears like an evil whisper. The Shadow elf wobbled when it spoke, the slight movement leaving the barest of traces. He couldn’t help but cringe, but his mother shot him a sideways glance, stilling him.

She nodded and knelt, tugging Incanus by the arm to join her in genuflecting. Sire.

Your charge? said the other, its voice no less disturbing.

Yes. She cast her eyes to Incanus with the slightest of turns. He is to embark upon his Rite of Investiture this night.

The Shadow elves looked down their slender noses at him.

The woods are tricky for the eyes of a Bone elf this close to dawn, said one.

Yes… Sire, Incanus dared to answer. I prefer to hunt at this time.

Prefer?

My prey feels the closer to dawn, the safer they are.

We shall see. One of the Shadow elves gargled over the words, leaning toward him. As the figure drew nearer, Incanus felt a chill wind settle around him.

It breathed, Incanus thought. It must be alive, after all.

Without another word, the Shadow elves slipped back into the darkness, slinking away until Incanus couldn’t see them anymore. He took a deep breath and stood tall, tightening his gloves.

This way. His mother guided him from Bereslangum and the pair approached the edge of the forest, and then they moved deeper into the pre-dawn woods.

Incanus kept following, waiting for his mother to give him instructions, but he soon lost track of not only where they were, but how long they’d been walking. Perhaps it was nerves, as Fala suggested. He shook off the thought and looked up. They were surrounded by nothing but rustling trees and the dark night sky above them.

His mother came to a stop and turned to face him. Are you, Incanus Dru’Waith, ready to take the solemn Rite of Investiture, to prove your worth to Bereslangum?

I am, replied Incanus.

Are you, Incanus Dru’Waith, ready to swear your fealty to the Shadow elves, our lord masters and sires?

I am.

There was a brief silence between them.

Then you are ready to begin your Rite of Investiture. His mother angled her face away, attempting to hide her emotions. Bring the ears of the prey that dwells within this forest back to me by dawn. There is only one.

Incanus’s face quirked, somewhat surprised with the challenge. Kill only one target and he’d pass the test? He had not imagined it would be so easy.

He dropped to one knee and bowed. It shall be done.

When he raised his eyes, his mother had vanished. He cracked a half-smile, knowing he couldn’t have asked for a better teacher. She was as silent and stealthy as he.

Incanus scanned his surroundings, his attention drifting toward the grass and mud beneath him. Within moments, he’d caught a trace of his prey: a set of odd indentions in the ground. These were not the claws of an animal or cryptid, but the booted footprints of a Raven elf.

There is someone else here with us, Mother, he whispered to himself as if she was still there. It was an old habit formed from long hours of training with her hovering over his shoulder. In an odd way, the hollow act comforted him.

You have spotted it well, he thought she’d say. For tonight, for the first time, his prey was not an animal.

He started.

Moving in near silence, Incanus climbed a small rise, following the trail, and readied his bow. With great care, he drew an arrow from his quiver and placed the nock on his bowstring.

He dropped to one knee and inspected the trail, hoping he hadn’t lost it. The elf’s boot prints turned back and then back again. He smiled to himself. His mother must’ve known it was following them, and perhaps tracking the two of them for some time. Was this a scout from Ravenshire? If so, they’d gone too far north. A foolish and deadly mistake. Or was there a spy in their midst, hoping to find the well-hidden Bereslangum?

Then a rogue thought crossed his mind. It was unexpected he’d be chosen to dispose of the elf, rather than the warriors being sent to dispatch or even capture it, but he brushed the thought aside and continued to concentrate on the trail as he closed in.

His senses sharp, he kept his nose to the wind, hoping to catch any advantage. But something was amiss. If this were a scout or spy, why would it not retreat and report? His acute hearing detected a rustle behind him, and it was then he learned of his mistake.

The elf was hunting, too.

In a flash of instinctive reflex, Incanus arched his back just as an arrow skimmed his armor, sailing aside into the overgrowth. He spun and caught sight of his enemy’s shadowy frame darting between trees, its hands scrambling to ready another shot.

Without thought, he rolled sideways, drew his string, and turned to fire.

The nimble elf had disappeared, but he knew the direction it had run. Taking another spin, he rose to one knee and took cover behind a mossy stone.

He waited. He listened.

The humming of a second arrow pierced the night sky, soaring by him. Then the shaft of a third, another near miss, exploded with a crack against the boulder in front of him.

He ducked and smashed himself as close to the boulder as he could. He heard the elf running and he sneered. This wasn’t just some scout. This elf had been trained well. To displace after every shot was a wise tactic, never letting your enemy hone in on your position.

Incanus used the elf’s motion against him. Instead of staying pinned, he sprinted in the opposite direction, back down the small slope, and then broke to the left to avoid a shot that never came.

With patience beyond his years, Incanus took cover, leaning in on a gossamer tree that split at the trunk, giving him cover and multiple lines of sight. He counted to himself, working to control his breathing, and listened.

Seconds felt like minutes, minutes like hours. He reflected on his training, hearing his mother’s voice in his head: The first to move in a stalemate is dead.

He didn’t care that the sun was approaching. He knew any clue to his presence would be his last. He remained still.

The slightest of noises rose on the wind. He strained his senses and heard the familiar sound of a bowstring stretching. With a pirouette, he spun from behind the gossamer tree and lurched to his right, nocking an arrow in the same flurry of motion.

The screeching of a loosed arrow whistled by, the sniper forfeiting his position. Even still in a roll, Incanus discerned the shape of his elven target leaning out of his superior position atop the hill.

Incanus raised his bow and fired on the run—a near impossible shot, even for a practiced warrior.

The arrow leapt from this bowstring and zoomed at his target. Even before it reached the elf, Incanus nocked another arrow.

The sound of his arrowhead embedding itself in the tree in front of the elf popped in his ears and he heard his target gasp.

The stunned sniper fell back from the tree, allowing Incanus the freedom he needed to make the killing blow. His lips curled as he let loose, arrow hurtling for his elven prey.

The dull thud of the arrow hitting home rose above the quiet forest, and for a second the figure stopped to look down at the arrow embedded in his chest. With a feeble stagger, the elf stumbled down the hill and collapsed.

Incanus glowed in pride. His first true kill lay only fifty paces away, and now it was time to collect his trophies. He approached, bow still drawn, watching the elf clutch at the mortal wound. Blood spattered across the jagged rocks as he lay gasping on the ground.

He knew deep in his heart he’d pass this test and now he just had to make it back to Bereslangum before dawn to claim his prize—to save Fala.

When he arrived at the grisly scene, he knelt over the elf, drew his dagger, and moved to carve off his ears.

That will teach you not to skulk around our land, Incanus boasted, triumph surging through him. Where are you from, anyway?

He’d expected a Raven elf from Ravenwood, a sworn enemy of his kind. But the smirk vanished from Incanus’s lips when he noticed the delicate features of the near white elf and the distinct markings on his armor.

This was no Raven elf. This was a Vermilion.

Incanus stood, his blood curdling. He, like all other Bone elves, knew from legends that the Vermilion elves only appeared from behind their walls of Eldwal in times of great need. A Vermilion elf near Bereslangum was no mere scout from a rival tribe. It was more than that. It spelled something sinister, something malevolent, something…

The sound of an explosion in the distance stirred him from his own thoughts.

Panic gripped at his chest, his heart racing. He turned in the direction of Bereslangum already knowing it was under assault.

In an instant, he sprinted through the forest, catching sight of the burning light of flames in the distance. As he raced along, he could hear screams and cries coming from somewhere in front of him. At that moment, his only thought was of Fala.

Darting between the trees with reckless abandon, he reached the training fields where hours ago he’d left his mother.

Mother.

Howls emanated from deep within the caverns, and even at this distance, his elven eyes revealed white stallions of the Vermilion cavalry riding in a phalanx to cut off those trying to escape the slaughter.

He ran as hard as he could, as fast as he could. His legs burned and his lungs heaved in desperation, tears welling in his eyes. Without fear, he made his way toward the grotto, staying low and skirting around the edge of the hidden grove. There were too many for him to kill, and he knew he’d surely fall to their blades if he wasn’t careful. His breath nearly escaped him when he crested the rise in front of him.

It was a massacre. Bone elven bodies, strewn like bloody and broken dolls littered the ground of his once-proud home. Some had fallen to arrows, others to the sword. But the smell from the smoldering flames that flushed out the underground dens struck him the most. The hale of white-hot magic still plumed in an ebb and flow from the entrance where the fires burned.

Incanus grabbed at his chest, hoping against all hope that Fala had escaped. She was no warrior, but she had magic and knew the woods better than any other of their kind.

Then a dozen Bone elves and the two Shadow elves he’d met earlier were rounded up and led from the fiery caves, weaponless and unarmored, surrounded by a patrol of Vermillion elves. Each of the Vermilion donned the same distinctive armor as the one he had killed.

Incanus squinted and shielded his face as the Vermilion lifted their torches and threw them at the Shadow elves. With a powerful voice, one of the Vermilion called out a magical incantation and orange flames burst forth from the torches, encircling the Shadow elves in a wave of light. Screams of agony echoed across the night sky as the Shadow elves dissipated, wilting in the illumination of the magical spell. Their ethereal cries only grew louder as they disintegrated into wisps of black smoke.

Incanus couldn’t stand to witness more. Suppressing the terror he felt, he ducked into the shadows and approached Fala’s den.

That was when he saw them. His parents.

His mother and father, slain outside their den. His mother’s mouth hung agape, her black blood still dripping from it, her eyes lifeless, impaled to the hilt on a Vermilion sword. His father’s neck hung by a shred of skin, a beheading that had not fully done the job.

Frozen in his own tracks, Incanus’s mind drew blank, as if his body had separated from his spirit. It was only when he heard a familiar voice that he wrestled himself out of his stupor.

It was Fala.

Please! Please, no!

Incanus’s sharp senses caught the direction of her voice, and fury coursed through his veins.

A lone Vermilion had dragged her from her den, her family already executed at her feet. Her simple frock had been ripped and shredded in the struggle, and she cried out for help, tears streaming down her muddied cheeks. A Vermilion soldier stood before her, his sword out, his face hardened.

Incanus raised his bow, his fingers fumbling to nock an arrow. But the Vermilion’s blade flashed before he could fire, showing no mercy to his beloved.

Fala crumpled atop the bodies of her dead family, her black blood tainting the once-white roses that shielded their grotto.

Incanus’s jaw dropped, his hand stalling, knowing she was lost. His screams echoed in the night, but no one heard him, for the roar of his dying village was too strong. The flames of the slaughter raged behind her body, casting him into shadows. Unable to bear the sight, his eyes averted themselves from her body and fixated on the blackened petals of the white roses near her.

He was empty. Dead inside. Nothing mattered anymore.

Come, Lord Dacre, one of the Vermilion commanders called to the bloody elf that stood above his beloved. Our work here is done.

CHAPTER ONE

The dead truly never leave us. They shall hunt you as long as you allow.

—Threnody, the Ancient of Death

NOT MUCH FARTHER, MY LIEGE. The port of Abacus lies this way. Skullam’s raspy voice shook Incanus from his thoughts.

Even with the Ophidian’s potion, Incanus Dru’Waith’s blurred vision persisted, and he knew he was dependent on his servant creature for the moment. His left eye, swollen and bloodied, remained closed, useless to him. The falcon’s talons had missed blinding him by the slightest of measures, but the wound it left tore flesh from his face, exposing his jaw and teeth.

In time, he’d heard the Ophidian say when he and Skullam slipped into the dark alleys behind the crooked walls of the Twin Snakes. In time your wounds will close, and your vision will return.

Time was something he didn’t have.

He hugged a wall and peered ahead with one eye, staying in the shadows as Skullam checked the streets ahead.

The way is clear, m’lord. Skullam motioned for them to hustle between the streets while they could.

Incanus grunted and leaned forward, lumbering from alley to alley and halted when the imp did so. He could only see a few feet in front of him, so he stared down at Skullam’s hunched figure, using it as his guidepost. His Bone elven night-sight should have been an advantage, but Ritter’s war falcon stole that from him with the scrape of its talons. His keen ears still heard the harbor bells though as they neared, and his nose detected the slightest salt of the warm Abacunian sea breeze.

The two slipped by the final few streets, appearing at the far edge of the harbor. The unique port was lit with tall poles, a soft yellow-green magic spilling in a frothy churn like waves in the sea from the high sconces, illuminating the docks.

Where to? Skullam asked.

When he turned, Incanus saw the open wounds on the imp. His bulbous nose, twisted and broken, still dripped a putrid, brackish blood. The tear in his wing from the arrow had ceased smoking—another scar wrought from Sir Ritter’s bow. But it was useless to the beast, grounding him until the powers of the creature’s dark trace healed it. In that moment, he took pity on his companion. For all his eccentricities, Skullam had been a loyal companion. Dauntless, the imp performed his tasks without complaint or consequence, save for the fear of not completing them.

Can you still conceal yourself? he asked.

Aye, Master, the imp replied, understanding what Incanus wanted. Skullam closed his eyes and with the faintest of magical hale, disappeared into his innate spell of concealment.

Incanus leaned against the wall of the fishery, finding a moment of respite, while staying hidden in the dark shadows. He heard the quiet footfalls of the imp trailing away, creaking on the seaworn boards of the docks. He exhaled and closed his open eye, recalling the battle from hours earlier, the pain a constant reminder of his missed opportunity.

When they’d left the Twin Snakes, few thoughts occupied his mind other than revenge. A revenge filled with the worst pain and suffering he could possibly inflict on any other living being. A pain equal to the one brought to him those many years ago in Bereslangum.

Yet the lingering visions of how he’d been thwarted hours ago floated back into his mind’s eye. The golden mace of Abacus—Peacemaker as it was known—brought with it a sorcery he’d hoped to avoid. But the weapon flooded the quad with its golden aura, taking him by surprise, and rendering him, for just a moment, without hate… without cause.

The humiliation.

The ordeal opened old wounds; wounds found on his darkened heart. Wounds, he thought, that couldn’t hurt him anymore. Fala…

He wasn’t blind to it. The connection—one between his trollborn adversary and the Vermilion princess. He had watched as Ritter stood, ready to forfeit his life for her. He knew that feeling.

Once.

Once, he too felt the same for someone—and he understood what compelled Ritter to stand in the way of any threat to keep her safe. Even though he’d not felt love for a long time, he knew why, yet he couldn’t remember how it felt. And that lack of emotion made him burn with anger and rage, a reminder of the same love he’d been denied long ago.

He hated the trollborn Longmarcher for it. Hated them both—Ritter and Addilyn. It had become more than just revenge. Since the day he’d killed Dacre—Addilyn’s father—his focus on the Vermilion princess had been more than just a desire. It had become an obsession, one that grew in strength with each passing day. He would end the Vermilion’s line of succession with his dark blade and cherish dropping his black rose on her bosom, his revenge complete. Fala’s honor and the honor of his family would be restored in the most fiendish of ways. Blood for blood. The illusory vision flashed by his closed eyes, and he fought the urge to smile.

The pain would be unbearable in his current condition.

Master, I’ve found a vessel. The imp reappeared at his feet. Empty, I believe.

Take me there, Incanus mumbled, his voice garbled in blood and hanging flesh. He pulled the cowl of his cloak tighter and tried to maintain an unrushed gait. But he knew the Castellan were looking for him, and if the wizards of the Horn of Ramincere were employing their scrying spells, they’d be found.

The imp took Incanus by the cloak and used its magic to conceal itself once more, leading the man through the docks at a measured, unassuming pace. The Bone elf struggled to see and staggered from his wounds, appearing more like a drunken sea dog than a merchant or sailor. But the hour was late, and the Fates for once appeared to be on their side.

Here. Skullam’s tugging stopped and Incanus peeked from behind his hood. It was then that he saw it. A magnificent ship of ashen wood, not too large to catch attention but small enough to harbor a couple of stowaways. It was distinct from the others, featuring a purple-colored head of a roaring dragon at the front, its marbled face carved into scales and its eyes aglow with the reflection of mystical gems, casting a spectrum of fractured light into the calm waters of the bay.

Is this the one? Are you certain no one’s aboard?

None that I’ve seen, Master. Skullam looked up at the ship and sniffed the air. But I must warn you. There is something about this vessel. It does not feel right. Powerful magic comes from it. It’s empty, but perhaps we should look elsewhere?

Incanus ignored the creature. He knew they couldn’t spend all night searching for the perfect vessel. The Castellan could find them at any moment. Climb on my back.

Skullam held on to the assassin’s shoulder with his uninjured arm and hoisted himself up. Incanus moaned with the added weight as the imp’s awkward clinging pulled at his wounds, but they had no choice. The creature couldn’t fly and there was no plank lowered. He’d have to jump onto the rigging and pull them both aboard.

With a muffled groan, the Bone elf leapt and climbed, the imp’s breath heating his neck as it seeped through his cowl. The wounds on his face reopened with the tugging, but it was a small price to pay for escape. Within seconds, he hefted them aboard, and with caution lowered the imp to his feet.

Incanus needed a moment to rest, but a moment he didn’t have. With practiced silence, his blade slid from his leather scabbard as he motioned for Skullam to search the vessel. His eye scanned the deck, looking for any sign of a crew. To his surprise, they found no souls topside.

The assassin straightened, his shoulders easing a bit. But he knew they weren’t done. He raised his blade and pointed to a small cabin amidships. With a flick of his outstretched sword, he waved for Skullam to approach. With careful steps, the two approached the cabin and his eye affixed on the door’s handle. He readied his blade and flung the door inward, extending his sword and sliding into the cabin. Ready for battle, his heart pounded in his chest, expecting to have startled a sleeping crew. Instead, he found the room empty.

The interior of the quarters stunned the assassin. For a ship this size, it was a grand, near opulent quarters. The space seemed larger once inside the chamber than from out, with pristine wooden flooring and a long dining table stretching from one end of the cabin to the other. Several bronze lanterns adorned the tabletop and a cabinet full of whiskey and port waited at the back of the table, diamond glasses complementing the drinks.

A peculiar speculum hung to the left, framed in the same ashen wood of the ship. Its mirrored surface reflected, catching the swift reaction of Incanus as he turned away. His blurred vision captured only the vague figure of himself in it.

In truth, he didn’t want to look. The sight of his face, as he had discovered at the Twin Snakes, repulsed him. But the mirror, so out of place for where it hung, lured him anyway.

Master, whispered Skullam, the mirror possesses of dweomer of sorcery. Be cautious.

Hush. He moved closer to the mirror, his face still hidden in the depth of his cloak’s cowl. He drew to a halt in front of it, resisting the urge to smash it with the pommel of his sword. He didn’t move. He didn’t dare. Even he, untrained in the ways of wizardry, could feel the magic of the speculum emanating from the polished glass in front of him. A strange and unfamiliar awareness seized him. There was something… behind the mirror… calling out to him. Not in a language, not with a voice, but with a feeling. A sense. A touch.

He reached his hand out slowly toward the mirror, but then a voice from outside the cabin startled him. Hey lad, watcha doin’ in me quarters?

Incanus reacted with anger,