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The early morning sun shone gold on the great gates of Austerden as they opened for Emara and the others. A towering, wingless dragon peered down on them with cold green eyes as they entered, a cluster of other strange monsters snarling around its huge clawed feet. Only a half dozen soldiers accompanied her through the gates, and Emara had to wonder if they were supposed to be preventing her from escaping, or, more likely, protecting her from Austerden’s bloodthirsty guards.

The crumbling stone of the city’s buildings sat eerily silent, and a stray hawk’s cry was the only sound to echo down the dilapidated streets. The soldiers swept them down a road lined with Lost shuffling restlessly to each side. What had once surely been a bustling city of merchants, sellers, pickpockets, and nobles was now almost completely occupied by stiff, black-eyed creatures that reeked of death and rot.

More disturbing though were the furtive peeks from the boarded windows of the homes and shops. She couldn’t believe the hostages were literally trapped here among the dead. How did these people survive? A small child-like hand reached out between two boards, and Emara’s stomach threatened to reject her meager breakfast. Taking in a sharp breath, she forced herself to keep it down.

This was why she was here. If everything went as planned, these people would be free by week’s end. Odriel protect them until then.

Aza hadn’t left her side since the night before, following her almost as closely as her actual shadow. Though she matched Emara step for step, the only real indication of her presence was her soft, nearly silent breaths next to Emara’s ear. Stress radiated from Emara’s tense body as her gaze bounced from soldier to soldier, sure they could sense Aza there. But no eyes, dead or alive, strayed from Emara. She seemed to have, with no exception, everyone’s full attention. For which she was both grateful and terrified.

But at least she wasn’t alone. Despite her bravado the night before and their carefully laid plan, she was still a prisoner in the Dead King’s city. Fear threatened to freeze her limbs and weaken her bladder at every moment. And where was Shad? Even after he’d stormed off last night, she thought for sure he would somehow sneak in with them.

Of course, it was better that he wasn’t. Safer.

But she still missed his reassuring brushes against her ankle. She’d grown used to him in the last weeks, and his absence left her feeling hobbled and unsure. Especially considering how they’d parted. What if she never saw him again? She swallowed, hoping he’d remember her well, and said a silent prayer he’d find a way to end his curse one day.

The red palace walls rose amid the center of town, the spires looming between arches and long, stained glass windows of the sea. It was hard to miss its beauty, but all Emara could think about were the walls within walls they’d have to fight to escape. Two of the Lost opened the tarnished golden doors, and Emara’s hands started to shake as she crossed the threshold. In the large, open foyer, a man with long blond hair and nearly translucent skin waited for them with a glittering smile.

With his tall stature and square jaw, he might have almost looked handsome in his deep purple tunic… if it wasn’t for the Rastgol surrounding him. Some were Lost, rotting and putrid, while a few looked more like Hunters—alive but with the vacant green stares of the necromancer’s control. The sight nearly froze Emara to the spot, and only a gentle prod from Aza reminded her feet to move. She folded her hands together behind her back to try to keep them from trembling.

The man looked to her captors and nodded. “You’re dismissed. You can find your compensation in the stables.”

With audible sighs of relief, the men retreated with quick steps. The heavy doors swung shut behind them, and Emara turned just in time to see a black streak dart into the shadows. Was Shadmundar here too?

The spike of fear clawed deeper into her center, and tears welled in her eyes. He’d come with them after all, and now that she was here, she desperately wished he hadn’t. How would he escape? What if the Lost caught him? Wasn’t he supposed to be smarter after 100 years?

The man cleared his throat, and Emara’s gaze whipped back to him. “Hello, Time Heir, I’ve heard such wonderful things about you.”

Emara kept her face as blank as possible, straining her ears for any sign of Aza while desperately hoping there was none to hear. “I-is that so?”

“Yes, but you’ll forgive me if I insist on witnessing such miracles for myself.” Drawing an ornate knife from his belt, he sliced through the wrist of the Rastgol Lost beside him in one smooth motion. The hulking undead warrior didn’t even flinch. “Heal him.”

Emara’s eyes grew wide. “But… he’s already dead. I don’t think I can—”

“He’s not completely dead; he’s walking around, isn’t he? If you can’t, you’re useless to us.”

Emara’s heart pounded in her ears. If she was useless to them, she would become just another dead-eyed face in their Lost army. Another silent hand prodded Emara in the small of her back, and she stepped forward with a wordless prayer. She eyed the split skin of the monstrous Lost that had doubtless killed many both in life and now in death. With nausea turning her stomach, she reached a hand to cover the bloodless cut.

The yanaa within him nearly floored her, and this time she did gag. The evil of the Rastgol’s worst thoughts, his worst parts, had been twisted into this weapon of barely contained violence. True to the man’s word, the Rastgol wasn’t completely gone, but rather… he was stuck. Held in place by invisible strings—neither living nor dead. Was he aware of what he’d become? The thought brought bile to her tongue, and with a start, she realized he was somehow connected to the blond man next to him.

Fighting the undertow of darkness, she forced her yanaa into his body, fighting the desire to destroy with the will to mend, to survive, to live. She squeezed her eyes shut, pulling more yanaa from her center as Aza had taught her.

“Please,” she whispered. “Heal.”

The skin and muscle twisted beneath her hand, at last bending to her will, and a spasm of hungry fury slipped through with it. The Lost Rastgol jerked, its skeletal jaw unhinging and snapping toward her. Emara flinched back with a spike of fear, then another wash of yanaa saturated the air, and the Rastgol whipped to attention. It took a rigid step back, the black hollows of its eye sockets as empty as ever.

The blond man nodded with an awed smile. “Extraordinary. I dare say you are everything we hoped. But where are my manners?” He gave a short bow. “My name is Valente Conrad, a child of Idriel, and the commander of his army. We are pleased to extend the opportunity to be of service to Okarria’s King and protector, the vanquisher of death.” He held out a hand. “If you’ll please follow me this way.”

“I don’t suppose I have a choice?” Cold sweat trickled down Emara’s spine.

Conrad shot her a smile, his heeled boots clicking on the marble floors. “Catching on quickly, I see.” His amused tenor echoed up into the tall, arched ceilings adorned with faded murals. Fire, shadow, and bright blue light played through the torn images in what looked like an old story Emara couldn’t quite piece together.

Out of the corner of her vision, eyes peered at her from the side corridors… wide and fearful. Because of course, even the Dead King’s castle would need servants. Emara met their gaze, and they ducked away on silent feet. The sight of them straightened Emara’s back with purpose, and she balled her fists. Not much further to go now.

She tried not to imagine the hundred different ways this could go wrong. Tried not to dwell on how naked she felt with only the knife in her boot. Tried not to think of how quickly the Rastgol around her could swing their blades and end her life.

“So,” Emara started. “I hear you’ve been searching for me for some time. What is it, exactly, you need me to do?”

“Idriel’s corporeal vessel was brutally damaged many years ago. Though we’ve successfully raised Idriel into the body, the injuries severely hamper his abilities.” His green eyes sparkled. “But now that you’re here to heal the body, Idriel will finally be able to remake Okarria in the name of power and immortality.”

A chill skated across Emara’s skin, raising the hair along her arms beneath her cloak. What did that even mean? A world of the Lost? “And if I refuse?”

His white smile only widened. “Idriel has been able to control a dead Time Heir’s gifts before. While a Lost Heir is never as strong as a live one, and Ivanora and I haven’t yet tried it ourselves, I suppose it would be the perfect time to experiment.”

The blood drained from Emara’s face. They would turn her into one of the Lost. Of course they would. Why hadn’t she realized that? Would she be aware of what was happening to her? Her throat threatened to close with the swelling fear. Would she be trapped in her body, helpless, while the worst parts of her endured to slaughter and destroy?

A light touch on the back of her arm returned her to the present. No matter what, they couldn’t let that happen.

“Without further ado.” Conrad flicked his wrist, and the Lost opened a set of tall, battered wooden doors, revealing what had probably once been the throne room… and now housed an enormous monster.

At least three times Emara’s height, the creature they called Idriel was roughly man-shaped with spikes protruding from every joint and finger. Glittering black eyes swiveled to her from a huge head that hung lopsided from bony shoulders. White skin, like that of a dead fish, peeled away from its face in long sloughs, and the stench of decay thickened the air.

This time, Emara couldn’t stop herself from bending over and retching bile onto the marble floor with a wet splat. The creature shifted stiffly on its broad dais, as if with great effort, and a wordless groan rasped from its throat.

“Now, now.” Conrad crossed his arms with a sneer. “That’s no way to greet the most powerful being to ever grace Okarria.”

Emara dragged in deep lungfuls of the putrid air, wiping her mouth with a shaking hand as she straightened. They were running out of time. Aza had to kill Ivanora before they discovered her or decided to kill Emara. The thought sent a bolt of panic rattling through her, and her gaze darted wildly about the room. Where was Ivanora?

The Rastgol Hunters lined the walls, swords and spears at the ready. In one corner, an old man hunched with his head bowed, looking nearly as dead as the creatures around him with his hollow face, scraggly gray beard, and ragged clothes. He sat crumpled on the floor as if too weak to rise, but when he shifted, his hands clanked with chains binding him to the wall. A gag held his tongue effectively silent, but his black gaze followed her, the only thing truly alive in the whole room. Had this been some disgraced advisor? A traitor awaiting retribution?

Idriel growled again, pulling Emara’s gaze to his crouched body spread across nearly the entire dais. At the bottom of the shallow steps stood two golden thrones on either side—one for each commander… but they both sat empty.

Emara clasped her hands tighter, trying to quell their quivering. What if Ivanora wasn’t here at all? How long should they wait before settling for Conrad? Idriel might still be able to raise the Lost, but in his condition the range of his power would be—

“I know his presence takes one’s breath away, but we have no time to lose.” Conrad flicked a finger, and one of the Rastgol seized her by the back of the neck. His fingers dug into her skin, nearly lifting her off her feet. “I want him healed. Now.”

His grip tightening, the Rastgol dragged her to the foot of the dais, throwing her toward the decaying demon. Emara fell to her hands and knees, the marble cold against her palms. A hiss cut through the air as the Rastgol unsheathed his blade and held it to her throat.

“I’ll give you to the count of three,” Conrad said. “One.”

“Wait!” Emara scrabbled backwards, only for the point of the blade to dig in between her shoulder blades. “What about the magus?”

“Which magus?” Conrad said, his gaze flicking briefly to the old man.

“Umm…” Emara grappled for some version of the truth that would keep her alive. “I’m not very strong. My mother never taught me the ways of the Heirs,” Emara babbled, her precious seconds ticking away. “I’m afraid I won’t be much use to you unless I have more yanaa to help me.”

Conrad turned his verdant green eyes to her. “How interesting that you would be so amenable to our cause. Do you honestly think I would delay this moment? We’ve been waiting decades.” With another cut of Conrad’s hand, the Rastgol whipped the flat of his blade across Emara’s face. She fell to the hard floor in a flash of pain, blood dripping from the slice across her cheek. “However, your suggestion is not without merit. If you fail, I will consider it. Now...” His brows drew low over his hard gaze. “That’s two.”

The Dead King edged nearer, dragging its rotting body across the floor with a guttural moan. Maggots as big as her fist wriggled through its skin as it reached out a bony hand toward her. Panicked tears flowed down Emara’s face, the cut in her cheek stinging as she looked around desperately for help. Where was Aza? And Shad? What should she do? Would he kill her without Ivanora’s permission?

Somewhere a Maldibor howl echoed through the halls—close.

Emara’s heart leapt with hope. Was the army already so near? Perhaps they’d come by the sea. Conrad’s thin-lipped smile turned into a snarl. “Time’s up, girl. That’s three.” He raised a hand, and Emara braced for a blow when the doors crashed open with a burst of flame.

The tornado of fire drew the dead like belligerent moths, obscuring whoever stood within the crackling blaze. From behind it, Makeo, Rendaro, and several other Maldibor streaked from either side, tearing through the Rastgol with their spinning broadswords.

Emara barely had time to take it in before her Rastgol captor hugged her to his body with a blade at her throat.

Conrad’s face purpled as he forced his Rastgol guards toward the intruders. “Stop or the Time Heir—”

His words broke off with a gurgle, and he looked down at the trio of bloody holes now puncturing his chest. He fell to his knees, and Aza blinked into sight, sweat dripping from her dark hair from the extended use of her gift. “Conrad’s dead. Get out of here while you can!”

The Rastgol’s hold loosened on Emara just a hair, and she took advantage of the moment to slam an elbow into his stomach and scramble out of his grip. With the entrance flooded with flames and the dead, she ran for one of the side doors instead, painfully aware of her lack of real weapons.

The old man at the corner screamed wordlessly through his gag, straining at his chains as he frantically beckoned her.

With no other direction, Emara whipped toward him. Drawing the knife from her boot, she cut away the gag. “Where’s the way out?”

But no sooner had the words left her tongue, than another of the Rastgol Hunters wrapped an arm around her neck, and her knife clattered to the floor. Her eyes widened. But… Conrad was dead… wasn’t he? Was the Rastgol attacking her of its own free will now? She struggled against the muscled arms, trying to get a glimpse of Idriel’s necromancing commander.

There. Though Aza’s daggers had punctured his chest, Conrad still stood while Aza drew her long black sword from one of the dead Rastgol and stalked toward Idriel, apparently ready to finish the battle here.

“Aza! Look out! Conrad’s not—”

But Emara was already too late. In three steps, Conrad’s corpse closed the distance and sank a knife into Aza’s back.

Aza’s eyes went wide with surprise, and Emara screamed.

Somewhere, a deeper, richer laugh echoed in the chamber, and from behind Idriel’s massive form, another blond-haired, pale-skinned man stepped forth with a beautiful woman on his arm.

He looked oddly young, with full golden waves and a wide smile. He turned to the green-eyed woman next to him, her shimmering red gown trailing across the floor and a long, thin sword strapped to her waist.

“You know, I’m always amazed at how foolish the Shadow Heir can be, with all their supposed cleverness.” The man smiled at his look-alike corpse puppet. “I mean, I really think I’m so much better looking than our unfortunate stand-in.”

The Conrad corpse stabbed Aza again, and she fell to the floor, her blood already pooling on the marble. A desperate howl filled the chamber, and a sandy-furred Maldibor rushed to her side, only to be mobbed by another crush of Rastgol. A strangled cry followed with a burst of flame, a gush of fire arching overhead toward Idriel before colliding with a shimmering invisible barrier. A yanai barrier. The irony turned Emara’s skin cold. The yanaa shield that had once protected Okarria from Idriel now protected the Dead King himself.

“The problem is,” the woman said, her voice as smooth as dripping honey, “they really do think we’re stupid.”

The blaze retreated from the shield as a knot of Lost tried to rush the flames, continuing their attack even as they caught fire.

“You really should stop that now,” Conrad called. “We have your Time Heir, and if you continue your useless folly, we won’t hesitate to kill her too.”

Emara tore her gaze away from Aza’s fluttering eyelashes, the life draining from her with every second. In slow motion, she saw the Lost tearing at Makeo’s fur as he tried to claw toward Aza. She saw the flaming Lost threatening to overwhelm the Dragon Heir at the door. Between the lashing flames, she saw the same copper-streaked brown hair and strong jaw from her oldest memories—Zephyr. And as his gaze met hers, his dragon fire stuttered just before an assailant knocked him to the floor.

“No!” Emara screamed, fighting against the meaty arm around her throat. She would not let herself be the liability that brought them crashing to the ground. “We can’t give up!”

Reaching for the Rastgol’s belt, she pulled out a long dagger and sliced it through the arm that held her. Though he didn’t flinch, his grip loosened amidst the stream of blood just enough for her to slip away.

But what could she do? Aza was dying, but a legion of Lost separated Emara from the Shadow Heir. A legion that was quickly shredding Makeo to pieces. Then the Dragon Heir would be on his own, surrounded by hostages he wouldn’t burn. And all the while, Conrad and Ivanora looked on with smug grins as if they’d planned every second, brimming with a sickening power that practically choked the air. What could she do against that? It was all happening too fast.

A hand seized her wrist, and she jerked toward it, expecting to find a rotting attacker. Instead, the old man looked at her with eyes black as obsidian. Beside him, Shadmundar skidded to a stop, hair on end and his one eye dark with fear.

“Everard!” Shadmundar yelled over the din. “You have to help Emara get out of here. She’s the only hope we have!”

Everard? A million questions battered Emara’s already deluged mind. Shadmundar’s master? Had Ivanora kept him captive here all this time?

The magus’s expression didn’t change, but his every movement was quick and decisive. He took the dagger from her grasp and grabbed her hand, slicing open her palm. The pain almost didn’t register amidst the screaming panic buzzing through her.

When he spoke, his words were barely more than a hoarse whisper. “Many years ago, someone told me that a time would come when all was lost. And I must put my faith in a girl who holds nothing but hope.” His gaze met hers, and he shoved the dagger back into her bloody hand, closing her fingers around it. “That girl is you, Emara, with power a century dormant sleeping within. Find it, and do not come back until you are ready to wield it.”

Fear and confusion warred within Emara. Nothing the magus was saying made sense. She had to try to save Aza before it was too late. They didn’t have time for anything else. But even as she said it, Aza’s hazel eyes dulled, her lips breathing her last as she mouthed one final word.

“Find Bellaphia,” Everard said. “Only she can help you.”

“But Bellaphia is dead, Everard!” Shad yelled, his voice cracking with desperation.

Emara’s heart threatened to burst as Ivanora’s voice drifted over to them, her heels clicking as she approached. “Brother? What are you doing with our dear guest?”

Everard only lifted a single eyebrow, a curve of a smile edging his cracked lips. “But a small trick.”

For a split second, Ivanora’s beautiful face morphed with confusion and then horror, but it was too late.

Squeezing Emara’s hand around the dagger, he plunged the blade into his own heart, hands still latched firmly on Emara’s, refusing to let her draw away. Blood gushed from his wound, over the blade, onto her hand in a flash of blinding blue light.

Emara screamed as a surge of power unlike anything she’d ever known flowed through her with a suffocating agony that threatened to tear her apart. Only Everard’s voice, echoing in her head, anchored her to the present. “Focus on Shadmundar, he is the thread that will guide you.” The light faded from his eyes as he sagged before her, his voice barely audible between her unbridled screams. “Find the power that sleeps within, Time Heir.”

Face contorting to rage, Ivanora reached a hand out, only to shriek as Shad leapt onto her chest, scratching and biting. With another cry, Ivanora hurled him to the floor, his small body cracking against the hard marble.

“No!” Emara yelled.

As the power and fear tore her apart, and the blue flame encased her body, Emara focused on Shad’s crumpled, still form, her voice small even in her own head.

Then everything blurred in a cornflower wave of agony, bursting through her every pore, and Emara was lost entirely.