THE TAPIRS ARE a cheerful lot, nodding and grunting in acceptance of everything Rumi proposes, even when it means hefting lumber over bumpy terrain. Then the group is off. They’ll head toward the mangroves, ironwood trees, and finally the beach—passing through Rumi’s home on the way.

Rumi’s in his now-customary position on top of Sky’s claws, looking down at the land below as the macaw scouts. “I want to check in with Mez using your feathers to link to the one you gave her,” Rumi says. “Can I do that now?”

“Of course,” Sky caws back. “Just hold on to one and send your thoughts to her. Let me know how all the new senses I’ve been able to work into my magic go. I think you’ll find it a more immersive experience than last time.”

“I will give you a complete report,” Rumi says. “Sky, before I go. I’ve been thinking. I want to tell Gogi and Banu what you found out in the Cave of Riddles before we get to my home swamp. I need them to understand why I’ll be so upset.”

“Yes, my friend. I was waiting for you to suggest that. If you’re still following Mez through the directive when we’re nearing your old home, I’ll extract you from the vision.”

“Thank you, Sky,” Rumi says. “Okay, I’m going in.”

Rumi pulls one of Sky’s crimson feathers closer to him, careful not to damage the sensitive spot where it enters the macaw’s skin. He closes his eyes and thinks of Mez.

Instantly he’s there. Really there, much more vividly than Sky’s magic was ever able to achieve before. There’s a slight haze to the scene, but even that could be from volcano smoke instead of any side effect of the magic. Rumi watches through the directive while Yerlo draws the panther sisters up short. “This is where I last saw them,” he says.

The panthers go still, sniffing around the broken fronds of a fern that must have once housed a den. From her position hanging upside down from Mez’s neck, Lima wriggles her nose. “I don’t smell any panthers.”

“I do,” Chumba says. “This way.”

Yerlo gives an impressed yowl as he follows. “Chumba’s tracking skills have always been the best in the family,” Mez says as they slink off, slow and silent through the undergrowth.

Picking up on the sisters’ unease, even Lima goes quiet, riding the air currents so her wing beats can’t reveal their location.

Chumba brings them up a tree, claws digging deep into wet and mossy wood. It’s a giant fig, so tall that its branches are as large as normal-sized trees, interlocking to form what feels like a copy of the jungle floor. There are fish in pools up there, tadpoles waiting to turn into frogs, all a good hundred panther-lengths over the ground.

“Aunt Usha?” Chumba whispers.

Panthers don’t generally make dens in the trees, but here is Usha’s voice, and the voice of a young panther, coming from a leafy corner of the canopy. “Chumba? Is that you?”

A breeze crops up, swaying the tree. Chumba, Mez, and Yerlo lower their ears in deference, casting their chins toward the branches. Even Lima joins them, bowing her little bat head, ears flopping and fluttering in the night breeze.

There’s a shift in the blacks of night, and what Rumi had thought was a starless patch of sky reveals it to be a panther slinking along a branch. When it turns, green eyes glitter.

“Usha,” Mez breathes. Rumi watches from the vantage point of the feather strapped to her as she slinks forward, sniffing Usha’s tail. Up closer, he can see what has bothered Mez. The regal panther, though still large and strong, has patches of missing fur, revealing deep scars along her body. One ear is ragged and torn. Her fur sticks out at rough angles, unlike the sleek lines of a healthy panther.

Rumi knows how much intimidation is mixed into the panthers’ love for their aunt, how she was a model of strength for them. To see her this way must be awful.

Another panther noses along after Usha. Like Yerlo, this one has lost the puffball look of the youngest panthers, but still makes her way along awkwardly, on oversized paws. She has a scar running over her nose, splitting it nearly in two. “Jerlo,” Chumba cries, nuzzling her cousin. “What happened to you?”

“The Elemental of Darkness,” Jerlo says miserably. “The Elemental of Darkness happened to us.”

Usha winces as she lowers her body to the branch. “You will need to face the enemy, so I should tell you what happened. Maybe you can learn from us, and have a chance to stop him. I don’t think it’s likely that any of us will succeed, but you have to try.”

Usha places most of her attention on Chumba. Rumi knows from Mez that though the panther sister is missing a front paw, she has proven a scrappy and resourceful fighter, and is next in line to lead the panther family.

“We have heard some from Yerlo,” Mez says. “He says that there is a being some animals call the Elemental of Darkness. It sent minions after us.”

Usha chuckles darkly. “It’s true. I will never call him the Elemental of anything, but he is happy to call himself that. I will bring you to see the Elemental of Darkness so you can see the truth for yourselves. You’re our only hope that his foul goals will not be achieved.”

“Foul goals?” Lima squeaks.

“Follow me,” Usha says darkly. “It’s simpler for you to see what I’m talking about for yourselves.”

Despite the evident pain in her limbs, Usha makes her way along the branch and slinks to one lower, then another. Jerlo follows after, quickly joined by Yerlo and the panther sisters, Lima back to riding tucked under Mez’s chin.

“After we cross the marshy stream up ahead, we keep absolute silence,” Usha intones. “No one must hear us.”

Mez is almost ready to cross the stream, but stops short. She looks back at Yerlo, Jerlo, Usha. Yerlo, Jerlo, Usha. She sucks in her breath. “Aunt Usha . . . where’s Derli?”

Jerlo and Yerlo close their eyes and look away, tails sinking. Usha’s eyes narrow, and her scarred ribs quiver with her rapid breathing. “I cannot say the words,” she says, her voice husky with emotion. “Besides, the words will not change what’s happened. You will see the truth for yourselves soon enough. Now, silence.”

Usha has stepped across the marshy stream. Rumi follows along as the panthers drop into hunting posture, tails low and ears back, eyes alert to any sign of prey or danger. The reek of pantherfear wafts up through the thick jungle air.

Lima alights on Mez’s back, right in front of the feather. Rumi gets a very close-up view of her backside. Bats don’t really have butts to speak of, he realizes. As if she’s aware that Rumi’s there watching through the feather, Lima turns around and gives it a tender pat. She’s saying hello, across the vast distance between them. Lima gives him a wink and a wing thumbs-up. The gesture brings tears to Rumi’s eyes.

For a while the panthers pass through the jungle in perfect silence. Then Mez hisses, and Lima’s attention whips forward.

“I don’t understand. How can this be?” Mez whispers.

Unfortunately, Lima’s backside is covering Rumi’s view. He can’t tell what Mez is talking about until she jumps to the next tree over—which is when he can see, in a straight line along the ground, perfectly spaced hirsuta trees. Their exact alignment goes against every rule of the chaotic jumble of the rainforest.

Far more ominous, though, is the fact that the trees are on fire. The flames are small licks, just enough to cast a ruddy glow in the moist night air, but it adds even more ominous layers to the scene. While they watch, unnerved, giant moths and click beetles buzz into the fires, flaring out and falling smoldering to the ground.

“The blazes are perfectly controlled,” Chumba says, her surprise making her forget Usha’s orders not to speak. “Who’s making that happen?”

“Someone with a magical ability to control fire,” Mez spits.

“But that’s silly,” Lima whispers. “Gogi is the only one we know who can do that, and he wouldn’t make this creepy scene. Also, he’s not even here.” Having worked herself up into a righteous fit, she slaps a nearby trunk. “Ouch. That’s definitely real fire. Just so you ladies know.”

Yerlo raises his sensitive nose. “Do you scent that?”

Usha nods. “He’s not too near, but in the area. Be silent, everyone.”

They follow as she slinks around the edge of the hirsutas. The trees unnerve Rumi, even far away, because of the firelight upon them. But their orderliness doesn’t bother him as much as it seems to bother his friends. They break the chaotic nature of the rainforest for a perfectly natural reason: hirsuta trees are the homes of lemon ants—the two species have a relationship, where the ants get to use the tree as their home, and in return they kill off any competing plants and ants. That’s why the clearing is so sparse, why there are no other trees blocking their view, why the firelight is able to cast such eerie shadows on the open space. But his friends probably don’t know such things. Their surreal surroundings must be extra terrifying to them.

The panthers and Lima pass along a valley of carnivorous pitcher plants, their funnel-shaped openings built to channel in scores of insects. Some of them reach higher than the panthers themselves. Low-hanging branches knit the sky above, so that the air becomes even more close, even more still. Any sound that the panthers made would carry easily through the nearby forest, over even the droning of the grasshoppers, cicadas, and crickets.

“Pew,” Lima says all of a sudden, waving a wing in front of her nose. “Does anyone else smell that?”

Usha goes perfectly still, foreleg frozen in midair. The other panthers mirror her. For a moment Rumi worries that the directive is broken, because it looks just like time has stopped.

Lima is the first to eventually move, hopping to the top of Mez’s head, probably to get a better view. She puts her wings over her mouth.

Rumi sees why soon enough. There’s a nightwalker cult.

That’s the only way Rumi can think of to describe it. The rainforest opens out into a murky clearing, with a low pond crisscrossed by drier patches of grassy soil. The whole area is full of animals. Unlike how they would usually behave, these nightwalkers are out in the open, in a semicircle. There are frogs and toads, an ocelot, owls and bats, Goliath birdeater tarantulas, a couple of boa constrictors, and who knows what other nightwalkers hidden in the dark. What—or who—they’re circling around, Rumi can’t yet see.

The nightwalker cultists sway in the firelight, smoke hazing the air around them. None of them seems to have noticed the approaching panthers—Usha’s instinct to go stock-still was a good one. For now, at least, they can observe the cult in peace.

Each of the nightwalkers that’s large enough is wearing a flower somewhere on its body—between the ears for the ocelot, behind the head for the snakes. Not just any flower; these are thick, drooping, and waxy, mottled in red and white. Worst of all, even through the directive Rumi can detect a pungent, rotting odor. Carrion blossoms. They smell like rotting flesh to attract pollinating insects. This cult seems to have some other use for them, though. Rumi assumes it’s a mark of membership.

Rumi follows along as Mez eases into motion, eking her way through the bushes, getting nearer to the cult. She’s nearly noiseless, passing forward on soft paws, Chumba equally quiet beside her. Even Lima is somehow managing to stay silent, keeping her wings tight around her mouth as she rides on her perch.

The stench of the carrion flowers grows stronger, and Rumi starts to hear chanting. The nightwalkers are saying one syllable over and over. Their voices are so soft and reverential that Rumi can’t make out what they’re saying.

Mez slinks even closer—just a few lengths away from the nearest nightwalker, a boa constrictor—and reaches out a paw to fold down a fern leaf. Rumi can sense her body go rigid when she sees what’s on the other side.

The Elemental of Darkness is in the center of the circle.

The Elemental of Darkness is Mist.

A good half a size bigger than he was before, he sits tall on his haunches, surveying the surrounding animals with a magisterial air. Though he still has the dramatic facial scar that came after animals hunting for Mez mistakenly attacked him, Mist otherwise looks in good health. His white fur is soft and sleek and full of volume, and for the first time since Rumi has ever seen him, his brows are smooth and his lips unsnarling. He’s . . . calm.

Mist’s stature’s not just from his increased size, though. Rumi focuses in on what’s below him.

Mist is standing on what Rumi at first assumes to be a hill of fresh soil, but then he sees it’s something much worse. At the base of the hill emerges a hoof here, an arm there—it’s a daywalker burial mound. How many slain animals have been hastily dumped within, Rumi doesn’t know—but it’s a lot.

Mist swivels to take in the assembled nightwalkers, soaking in their adulation. As he shifts, Rumi can see that beside Mist is a young panther, the same size as Yerlo and Jerlo. His paws have been bound with one length of liana, so that all four are wrenched together. He lies on his side, eyes scrunched shut. He might be unconscious. Rumi can see from the movement of his scrawny rib cage that his breaths are shallow and rapid.

“Oh no,” Chumba whispers through gritted teeth. “Poor Derli.”

“Mist showed up at our den two moon cycles ago,” Usha hisses. “We had heard about the demise of the Ant Queen, of course, and your hand in it, but we did not yet know that Mist had worked to help the Ant Queen in return for her favors. That information he scornfully told us only after his plan was in motion.”

“His plan?” Mez asks.

“He challenged Usha for control!” Jerlo says, hissing.

“He what?” Mez asks, tail thrashing. The scent of pantherfear rises from her.

“Mez,” Chumba warns. “Don’t let them detect us.”

“What does that even mean, challenging Usha for control?” Lima whispers.

Usha’s whiskers prick. “He broke no rules by challenging me. It’s long been panther ritual that any member of a family may challenge for control, and the results of the one-on-one combat are binding. I knew that one of your generation might challenge me someday, but I did not expect it to come for many drops of the Veil yet. I was unprepared.”

“It wasn’t a fair fight,” Jerlo says, shaking her head. “Mist hadn’t told Usha about the magic he got when you destroyed the Ant Queen.”

“He did not have to. I accepted his challenge, and then I lost the fight. That makes the handover of power legitimate.” As is her usual way, Usha shows little emotion, instead keeping up her regal air. But even across a long distance, Rumi can see how the luster has dulled in her eyes, the defeat that droops her whiskers despite her defiant posture.

“The last we saw Mist, he ran into the swirling magical energies the Ant Queen left behind,” Mez says. “He disappeared after that.”

“As you can see, he’s far larger and stronger than me now,” Usha says. “Even if he had stayed his normal size, he is still in his youthful prime. My muscles are not as strong as they once were. He might have won without needing any magic at all.”

Mez gapes at her dispirited aunt.

“Don’t speak like that, Mother,” Jerlo interjects. “You could have beaten him. Mist got lucky.”

“I wish I had beaten him,” Usha says. “I would have fought to the death if I’d known he was planning all this.”

“What is this? What’s he doing?” Chumba says.

“He’s done something no other panther has done,” Yerlo says. “He’s exercised the right of dominion across species lines.”

“Right of dominion? What’s that? Can I have one?” Lima asks.

“Panthers are the apex of the rainforest power structure,” Mez whispers. “Normally that’s left unstated, since we have no use for any additional power beyond being able to eat whomever we choose.”

“Yeah, it’s hard to imagine wanting much more than that,” Lima says, nodding.

“All the same, we panthers talk a lot about our right of dominion,” Chumba adds.

Mez nods ruefully. “It’s one of my least favorite things about panthers. We believe we are totally separate from the other animals, and because of that we have the power to do what we please with the rest.”

“Is anything worse than eating the other animals?” Lima asks.

“A very good question,” Usha says darkly. “My answer would have been no . . . until I saw what Mist has done. Hush. He’s about to speak.”

“Gather close, my allies,” Mist says. “I have an announcement.”

The panthers nestle themselves more thoroughly into the greenery while Mist takes in the assembled nightwalkers. Smoky firelight fills the humid air, as the nightwalkers sway and watch, their carrion flower decorations dotting the clearing.

The nightwalkers press closer to Mist. Among them are predators and prey, and a few of them startle at the unexpected closeness to sworn enemies. They begin to chatter, but Mist stares them each in the eye in turn, then lifts out a paw, pads up. He lets out a burst of fire. It’s confirmed, Rumi thinks. Mist has powers over fire.

Awed, the nightwalker cultists go silent.

“You remember how we all lost our powers momentarily while the lens was redistributing the magical energy of the eclipse?” Mez whispers. “I’m starting to have some suspicions about the source of Mist’s power.”

Chumba, Usha, Jerlo, and Yerlo nod somberly. Lima nods. Then stops. She looks between them. “Wait. What is it?”

“That is Gogi’s power,” Mez whispers. “Or at least a sliver of it.”

“Yikes,” Lima says. “I wonder who else’s powers he got.”

As if in response, Mist opens his mouth and sends out a whirlwind of air that catches the flames, sending them in a swirling tornado that rises into the night sky before dissipating in a rain of sparks.

It’s not as big an effect as Rumi would have been able to achieve back when his magic was at full power, but it seems Mist also has some power over the wind. Rumi’s power. Did he take it, does that explain Rumi’s reduced abilities? But then again, none of the other shadowwalkers have had their magic reduced in the same way. There must be some other reason for Rumi’s wind cramp.

Fire is especially impressive to nightwalkers, whose eyes are adapted to create images from even the smallest amount of light. They are literally dazzled by Mist, eyes blinking rapidly and streaming tears. Through the transmitted vision of the feather, Rumi isn’t hit as strongly by the image, and so he can watch without pain as Mist, after staring about the crowd to gauge the impression he’s making, disappears from view.

Invisibility. Mez’s power. He’s got that one, too.

Each of them who was at the titanic fight against the Ant Queen during the lunar eclipse, when the magic of Caldera was released and reshuffled—Mist has absorbed some of their powers. This had been Auriel’s plan originally, until he died and was resurrected. Mist has accomplished what Auriel was never able to do.

The nightwalker cultists recover, losing their dazed looks as they scan about the clearing, eyes streaming tears as they search for their leader. As they do, Rumi feels his blood begin to race. Panthers are very good at hiding, but the combined searching of all these nightwalkers will soon uncover them.

Thankfully, Mist doesn’t take too long to deliver his reentrance. Jets of flame lance into the night sky, and then Mist appears in the midst of the group of nightwalker cultists, still balanced on the burial mound as he shoots flames from his tail and the backs of his paws. The assembled nightwalkers shout and screech and bray in horror.

“My allies,” Mist says, “I hope that display has impressed on you the horror of fire. The volcano is only starting to become active—what you have yet witnessed of fire is but a mere flicker compared to what will happen in a few nights when the volcano goes off. We must begin our nightly hunt for daywalkers. It is they who have generated the black clouds at the horizon, it is they who have caused the rumbling of the earth, it is they who are the source of all Caldera’s evils. They must be punished!”

“Mist, what are you doing?” Mez hisses softly.

Rumi knows that of course Mist’s claims don’t make any sense, that there’s no daywalker conspiracy to set the volcano off. But the claims energize his followers, set them into hooting and hissing. Whether Mist believes what he’s saying or not, his words are working.

“I have proved my commitment to our shared goal,” Mist says. “You witnessed as I defeated my own mother in ritual combat. She is in her prime, and I should not have been able to best her, but I did. I should not have ever wanted to contest her, but I did for your sakes. Look what else I have sacrificed: here before you is my brother, punished and imprisoned, at our collective mercy because he dared to resist me. You need no more evidence of my devotion. That is why, when I ask you to do what I am about to ask of you, you must act and not question my words. I deserve at least that from you in return for everything I have given up.”

Rumi sees a mixture of horror and morbid curiosity in Mez’s and Chumba’s expressions. Lima flicks her floppy round ears, a sure sign she’s not sure what’s going on. Usha’s eyes are downcast. She’s clearly overcome.

Rumi’s mind races. Mist has taken all of their powers, from Gogi to Rumi to Mez to . . . Sky. Divination. That’s almost the most fearsome. What does Mist know?

“We are about to face our greatest battle, my minions,” Mist says. “The night I foretold has arrived. There are adversaries in our midst.”

Mez’s and Chumba’s ears flatten, and they shrink deeper into the shadows of the fern. Lima chirps in fear. But even if they know what’s coming next, they can’t make a break for it, not if doing so would reveal their location.

Mist’s gaze trains more and more toward the fern where the companions are hiding. “We all know how idiotic daywalkers are,” he says. “They could never come up with a plot to destroy our land all on their own. They need the help of the shadowwalkers, the evil beings that ushered in this time of troubles. The evil beings that maimed me, your Elemental of Darkness. And those shadowwalkers have heard about our movement to cleanse the forest of daywalkers. They have come with the arrogance to think they can stop us.”

Murmurs and hisses. “Just tell us where they are!” calls one of the boa constrictors.

“Once we destroy this threat, you and your Elemental of Darkness will be free to save the land from the black clouds, from the coming lava, to put an end to this time of troubles.”

“Sweet guano, this is bad,” Lima chirps.

Mez and Chumba shrink deeper into the ferns.

“Where are these enemies?” an owl hoots.

“When I count down from three, the battle begins,” Mist says, his eyes on a fern—the very fern where the panthers are hiding. The cats crouch as low as they can into their camouflage.

“Three,” Mist says.

Chumba’s claws extend, while Lima silently flits to a higher branch.

“Two,” Mist says.

Usha begins to growl, hackles rising.

Mez slinks forward to be the first into the fight, going invisible as she creeps to the exposed edge of the fern.

“One,” Mist says.

The clearing goes still, all attention on Mist.

He draws back the remnants of his lips, exposing long teeth. Rumi waits for him to speak, but that’s not what Mist does next.

He sends a fireball out of his mouth, right to the fern hiding Mez, Chumba, Usha, Jerlo, Yerlo, and Lima.