Account of the Impressor

Director, my messengers heard this account directly from the impressor, a man named Arz, but the story is spreading quickly—it’s already in Jahara, and there’s no telling where it will go from there. The boys are on the Artax now. Please tell me there’s a plan to stop them.

–A.D.

I didn’t want to believe the stories. They were just boys, you understand? Boys we captured. Boys that were ours. Our prisoners. Our possessions. Our creations. How bad could they be?

But these weren’t boys.

They were bloodletters. Like something out of a nightmare. Can you imagine all your worst deeds made flesh? Your own monsters unleashed against you?

I thought I recognized one of them. This boy with white markings on his face. He killed one of ours half a year past. He pissed himself when they added a burn to his count.

But he wasn’t that boy anymore. He was fast. Skilled. He would’ve finished me if I hadn’t gotten off a lucky shot. That was all that saved me. Luck.

And he wasn’t even the worst of them.

No, that was their leader—Archer. That was his name. ARCHER.

I’m telling you, Serakeen can stop looking. Someone’s already found his boy.

I’ve never seen anyone fight like that, like it was second nature. Like he’d sooner stop breathing than stop fighting.

He killed his own lieutenant—did anyone tell you that? Beat him to a bloody pulp then shot him between the eyes. You should’ve seen the lieutenant. He loved Archer. You should’ve seen the love in his eyes. And Archer put him down like a rabid dog.

He’s the one, all right. The boy with the scar.

And he’s coming for all of us.