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The Shadow Heir, Odriel’s Assassin, the Wraith Captain of the North. The one who walked unseen and had killed more people than Emara’d ever met. Some said that she could even speak to the dead and kill with a kiss. By all accounts, her reputation was almost as fearsome as the Dead King, and yet this woman had just saved her life.

She was younger than Emara had imagined, maybe only ten years older than her, but more than that, even under the hard edges of her lean form and sharp face, there was a softness to her eyes. One that spoke of pain and the sort of fatigue that came from seeing too much too young.

“I’m not sure I’m the one you want.” Emara’s legs started to tremble, threatening to give out now that the panic of battle had left her.

The barest hint of a smile softened Aza’s mouth. “We’ll see about that.” She bent, wiping her blades on the dead Rastgol beside her before sheathing them. “But first, let’s get to safety.”

She clicked her tongue twice, and four stags bounded through the trees toward them. With their thick, lionlike manes, tall twisting antlers, and delicate cloven hooves, they were perhaps the most beautiful creatures Emara had ever seen.

Aza touched her forehead to the muzzle of the midnight black one, a long obsidian sword with a spiked pommel strapped to the fine leather saddle. Aza mounted and extended a gloved hand to Emara. “Ridden a Dalteek before?”

Emara shook her head, her mouth hanging open, and reached up to take Aza’s hand before drawing back. “Wait, where’s Shad?” She searched the dark clearing. “Have you seen a black cat? I can’t leave him here.”

Behind Aza, a sandy-furred man-beast, already atop his own dark-coated Dalteek, snorted as he ran a paw through its white mane. “Have we seen him? I’d say we’ve seen too much of him.”

“And this is why the Maldibor aren’t renowned for their manners,” Shad called.

Emara let out a sigh of relief as the cat picked his way through the carnage toward them. He barely paused as he leapt onto Aza’s saddle.

Taking Aza’s hand, Emara mounted up behind her, and looked down to where Shad lay curled in a basket-like saddle bag that seemed to be made just for him. “Thank you, Shadmundar. That’s twice now you’ve saved me.”

“No thanks needed,” Shad said. “I think you’ll find that happens quite often around here.”

Emara tried for a smile but struggled to keep her eyes open. “I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

“Trust me,” Aza said, trading a glance with the sandy man-beast. No, Maldibor, Shad had called them. The Maldibor’s green eyes glinted when they met Aza’s, and her thin lips curved up just a little. “The alternative is much worse.”

Emara woke with a start, her heart pounding and her mind racing to remember where she was. The Rastgol. The Lost. The Shadow Heir. The dimness crowded around her. Weak streams of light flowed from a hole high in some sort of cavern, and the warm weight of a cloak laid across her. She took a deep breath to calm her fluttering pulse. Safe for the moment.

A low murmur echoed in the chamber, and Emara turned to see two Maldibor, the Shadow Heir, and Shad clustered around a small fire. The aroma of roasting meat, and a richer, nuttier scent wafted through the chamber, making Emara’s mouth water. But there was another smell too, an intense animal musk that must have come from the Maldibor.

“Looks like someone’s awake,” the blond Maldibor said in his gravelly baritone. “Come join us for lunch.”

Emara pulled the cloak more securely around her shoulders, grateful for its warmth in the cave’s damp. “But what about the Lost?”

“Don’t worry.” He bared his teeth in a rather intimidating smile. “Bulani is keeping watch above.”

Needing no further encouragement, Emara rose and picked her way across the uneven cavern floor to the fire. She squinted up at the bright beam of light coming through the opening above and tried to judge the time. “How long did I sleep?”

“Right through breakfast,” said the light brown Maldibor, tossing her a waterskin. His voice sounded younger than the other, and his ears and snout looked slightly too big for his face.

“Here.” Aza handed her a bowl filled with chunks of meat and vegetables swimming in a thick stew. She’d stripped down to a sleeveless undershirt, and Emara’s gaze caught on the twisting black tattoos that scrawled up her pale skin. Broad, looping names wove into an intricate pattern from her fingers all the way to her shoulders. “Try to eat slowly. From what Shad tells us, your stomach probably won’t keep down too much to start.”

Emara did as she was told, trying to take her time as she sipped water and took small bites of the hearty stew. The others sat quiet for a moment, casting curious side glances her way, and she wondered how much Shad had told them.

The sandy Maldibor broke the silence first. He leaned forward from where he sat against the cavern’s rocky wall, not far from Aza’s side. “We met when you were young, but I would’ve looked much different then. Ivanora’s curse transforms the males of our bloodline into beasts before we reach adulthood, so fully grown Maldibor are only human on dark moons.”

Emara’s brow furrowed as she looked from the Maldibor to Shad. Another curse? They did share those strangely luminescent eyes, tinged with the yanaa that had changed them. The magi were obviously not to be taken lightly.

“So allow me to reintroduce myself,” the Maldibor continued. “I’m Makeo of the Maldibor clan, and I know you don’t remember, but I want to thank you for saving my life.”

Aza stilled beside him, and Emara didn’t miss the reassuring paw he placed on her knee. Emara chewed and swallowed another mouthful of stew. “You think I… saved your life?”

His muzzle dipped toward his chest. “You did. I was split nearly wide open, and you put me back together. And you were barely knee-high back then.”

Emara racked her brain for any hint of such a memory and came up with nothing. “I’m sorry, if that was me, I don’t remember.”

“No need to apologize,” Makeo said, the cavern’s shadows flickering across his wolfish muzzle. “It’s understandable you don’t remember. You were so young, and such trauma can do great harm to the mind.”

Aza gave her one of her barely there smiles, her tattooed hand gripping Makeo’s paw. “We’re just glad we found you at last.”

Emara took another sip of water from the flask, her emotions rampaging from thankful to bewildered to trepidatious. Even if she was the Time Heir, what would they do when they realized she was nowhere near as powerful as the legends of old? Would they abandon her here with the monsters and the Lost? She chose her words carefully, trying to order her thoughts amidst her tumultuous feelings.

“It’s true that I can heal small wounds, but I’m a far cry from the miraculous Time Heirs of lore.” She shrugged, the shame of it burning inside her. “I’m good with a bow, but I’m afraid I’m no warrior, and I’m not sure how much help I can be to you.”

A long beat of silence curled through the cave, anxiety coiling around Emara before Aza finally cocked her head. “How much do you know of the Heirs?”

Emara swirled the last drops of her stew in the bowl. “Only a little. I lived most of my life with the merchant clans of the southwest. When the Lost started devastating the land, the Heirs seemed like nothing more than an old wives’ tale.”

“Then you’ve never heard of the original Heirs?” The brown Maldibor’s green eyes grew wide with enthusiasm. “When the first Heirs challenged the demon necromancer, Idriel, the Time Heir lent the Dragon and Shadow strength and healing so they could battle the hordes of dead and banish Idriel, though most call him the Dead King now.”

Emara snorted. “I know the basics.”

“You’ll have to forgive Rendaro, he’s rather… excitable.” Makeo ruffled Rendaro’s already mussed fur with a smile. “But he can smell the Lost from two miles upwind, so we keep him around.”

“I’m still not sure that’s a fair trade,” Shad said, his small nose twitching.

“The Dragon burned the dead with his fire, the Shadow battled Idriel unseen, and the Time Heir healed them. Then they passed on their gifts to their eldest child to keep Okarria safe,” Emara murmured, odd tears brimming in her eyes. “My mother would tell the story late at night, usually when I was already half asleep, but… I always thought it was mostly myth.”

“Your mother was a powerful Time Heir.” Aza’s gaze followed the dancing flames, her fingers tracing the dark tattoos up her arms. “Perhaps she couldn’t let it go entirely.”

“Then… why did she leave the other Heirs?” Emara asked.

Aza’s mouth tightened, and a sadness darkened her hazel eyes to a deep amber, but it was Shad that answered. “Heirs, and those around them, have often shared the unfortunate fate of being killed, and I’m afraid your family has borne the brunt of it. After all, as long as a Time Heir heals them, the Shadow and Dragon are nearly unstoppable. Because of this, four generations of Time Heirs have now been murdered by the Lost or their allies.” His tail swished across the yellow and brown whorls of the flat rock beneath him, and the snap of the flames filled the heavy pause. “She didn’t want the same thing to happen to you.”

“It didn’t help her in the end.” Emara swallowed, her chest tightening with long-buried thoughts of her mother. “She died trying to lead the Lost away from our clan.”

For a moment, they were all silent.

“How long ago?” Aza asked.

Emara set her bowl down on the cavern’s sandy floor. It had been long enough for the pain to dull to an ache, but it was still there in the bottom of her heart, pulsing with grief. “Eleven years past now. My father’s mother raised me until she too died a few years past.”

Aza’s shoulders seemed to relax ever so slightly, and she nodded. “I’m sorry, Emara.”

Emara shook her head, pushing her curls back from her face. “So why is the Dead King looking for the Time Heir? If he wants me dead, the Rastgol could’ve easily done that.”

Aza leaned forward, her expression hardening and a new tension coiling in her muscles. “Ten years ago, Valente Conrad, a human gifted with Idriel’s necromancy, and Ivanora, a magus blessed with Idriel’s unfathomable yanaa, raised Idriel from the dead using the body of an ancient soul-eater from Carceroc forest.”

“But Aza and Makeo had already beheaded it.” Rendaro gestured animatedly with his huge paws. “Ivanora and Conrad tried to stitch him back together, but it didn’t work. So it’s only at half strength.”

“Ah.” The pieces slotted together in Emara’s mind. “And they believe the Time Heir can heal the body.”

“Can’t you?” Shadmundar asked, his fidgeting tail brushing her leg.

“A demon living in a decapitated monster?” She wrinkled her nose, almost laughing at the absurdity of it. “Not likely. I think I’ve mentioned this, but I don’t exactly work miracles.”

“But you can,” Aza insisted, tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear. “The Time Heirs of old were legendary. There are tales of them bringing back a soul whose heart had stopped beating, of mending minds scarred into madness, of empowering an invincible army—”

“And there’s even one story of a Time Heir manipulating time itself,” Rendaro rushed out.

“Invincible armies? Manipulating time? I don’t even know what that means.” Emara barked out a dry laugh. “Believe me, if I could do any of that, I wouldn’t have almost been killed by the Rastgol. You can’t really believe those tall tales, can you?”

Aza traded a small, knowing smile with the two Maldibor before turning back to her. “You’d be surprised what we believe.” Aza took a knife from her belt and twirled it between her fingers. “But I can say with certainty you’ve only touched the surface of your abilities.”

Emara’s skin prickled as she eyed Aza, her every move speaking of a subtle power and grace, and the rumors about the Shadow Heir returned to her. How she could walk the land of ghosts and speak with the dead. This wasn’t just any woman in front of her, this was a legend.

The light dimmed in the cavern, as if a cloud had passed over the sun far above, and Emara shook her head with a shudder. “I’m not like you. I don’t have that kind of power. I can’t even heal someone without touching them.”

Makeo stood and crouched next to her, smelling of pine and a deep animal musk that seemed oddly familiar. He took her hand in his paw, and her yanaa immediately reached out to him. Surprise jolted through her as his yanaa met hers in kind, like a trace of a summer breeze, light but still present.

He had only cuts and bruises, but she couldn’t help but coax the pain from them. His tongue lolled out in another wolfish smile. “Even as a child you were powerful beyond measure. Astounding.” He gently squeezed her fingers. “And I can feel your power now. So much you can barely contain it.”

Emara slipped her hand from his grasp, wrapping her arms around herself as she looked into the fire. “Even if that’s true, what can I do against the Dead King, a magus, and a necromancer?”

Aza took the empty bowl from the ground and refilled it from the small kettle over the fire. “I know this may be hard to believe, but you’re the key to ending this war, Emara.” She offered her the bowl. “With or without your gifts, we need you. But the question is, will you help us?”

Emara accepted the worn wooden bowl, her hands shaking. She thought of the legend she couldn’t remember being, the father she couldn’t remember dying, and this hulking beast that she couldn’t remember saving. She thought of her mother’s sharp warnings about her gift, her warm soothing embrace, and all the secrets she must’ve kept hidden away. Even Yaya, with her sideways glances, must’ve known.

And now here she was in a world torn to pieces around her, with the Shadow Heir dangling the impossible dream of putting it back together. Would accepting her role as the Time Heir also mean turning her back on her mother? But then again, if she was a Time Heir, didn’t she owe it to those that came before—her grandfather, and his father, and on—to fight for the Okarria they’d died for?

Even if she wasn’t an Heir, didn’t she owe it to those who’d fought and bled for Faveno? For any one of the towns that had sheltered her from the darkness? Even for Shadmundar, who’d risked his life to save hers—to bring her here, for this one faint hope.

“Okay.” She lifted her chin, resolve straightening her spine. When the protectors of Okarria asked for help, there was really only one answer. “What would you have me do?”

“It’s simple really.” Aza scraped a circle in the sandy rock with her knife. “I need to get close enough to kill the magus, Ivanora. She’s the source of power controlling the Hunters and keeping Idriel alive.”

“But you can become invisible, right?” Emara asked.

“Yes, but unfortunately, Ivanora can sense yanaa.” Aza’s hazel eyes pierced through her. “The same yanaa that runs through you.”

“And they’re looking for me.” Emara’s mind sifted through the possibilities. “You’ll be able to get into Austerden with me as your shield.”

“But what then?” Shad asked. “Even once Ivanora is dead, it will still just be the two of you in the Dead King’s fortress.”

“But Idriel will be dead without Ivanora, right?” Rendaro practically panted in excitement. “And Conrad is only a man.”

“The Lost will still attack of their own accord,” Makeo said, standing again to his towering height. “Even without a puppeteer, the worst part of humanity courses through them.” He looked at Aza, his expression tight. “This plan is too dangerous. There has to be another way.”

“I’ve been weighing options for years, Keo. This is our best chance.” Aza rose, her knife twirling through her fingers. “I’ve already sent harehawks north to my parents and brother to put the plan in motion. They’ll attack the walls, drawing the Lost away from us and distracting their attention so we can slip in safely. Once Ivanora is dead, her human Hunters will be released, the Dragons will burn the Lost, and we will take the city.” She glanced at Emara, resolve firm in her every motion. “We can hold out until then.”

Emara said nothing for a moment. In all actuality, it was a simple plan… but the good ones usually were. And the best part was, it didn’t really require her to heal anyone. All she had to do was be present.

“You don’t have to go along with this if you don’t want to,” Shad said, his voice low like he was talking only to her. “We can come up with a different plan.”

“He’s right.” Makeo drifted closer to Aza and ran a furred finger down her tattooed arm, his expression almost pleading. “You know the probability of you surviving this is low.”

“If I do die, I’m sure the next born of the Thane line will rise a better Shadow Heir than I.” Aza squeezed his hand with a weak smile, her words soft. “But we both know if anyone deserves to take the risk, it’s me. It’s our best chance, and it’s my choice to make. Just like it’s Emara’s.” She faced Emara, her voice hardening as the sunlight brightened from above, illuminating the dust motes dancing through the air around her. “But either way, we have to move fast. Will you do it?”

All those years running. Surviving. Trying to fight back against the monsters that had taken her mother, her home, her people. Searching for a why hidden in the horror. And here it was—offered from the palm of an assassin of a half-remembered myth.

Emara didn’t have to think. If she could play even a small part in ending this nightmare, she would gladly do her piece. She owed them that much… and so much more. She took a deep breath.