So much death, and born of his pride. Viktor Akadra, who didn’t lose. It was his responsibility. He was tired. But more than weariness of the body, he was sick of holding back, of hiding who he was and what he could do. If he’d drawn on his shadow from the first, the battle might have ended in victory long ago.

His boot brushed against steel. Stooping, Viktor reclaimed his claymore. The blade was battered and notched. The ribbon – Calenne’s ribbon – was still knotted tight about the pommel.

What had become of her? What fate had he led her to?

Again, Viktor’s shadow cried out.

Weary, sore and his heart heavy with rising anger, Viktor granted its wish. More than its wish. Even as he reached for the shadow, he touched something deeper, stronger. Buried deep not within himself, but in the soil – in the very bedrock of Southshires. It wasn’t the same as his shadow, but nor was it wholly different. Unfamiliar words sung to a tune memorised long ago.

He hesitated, wary of the hidden tides swirling inches from his grasp, but only for a moment. His pride had brought about enough death. No more hiding. No more fighting what he was. What he could do.

Viktor’s breath frosted in the air as the hidden power bent to his will. Ice crackled about his fists. The ground shook.

The cavern screamed. Stone split beneath Calenne’s feet. She hurled herself sideways. Her shoulder struck rock. The bones of her broken wrist ground together. Darkness pulsed within the ring of light. Dust spilled from fresh cracks in stone. One by one, the torches went out. A wordless cry echoed through the air – part longing, part triumph.

Calenne scrambled to her feet and backed away across the bucking floor. Darkness surged between the quenched torches.

Malatriant’s sharp-featured form coalesced a pace beyond the extinguished cage. No longer swamped in shadow, her flesh was pale as alabaster and shot through with spidery black veins. Her hair streamed behind like a dark, windblown flame. A hollow flame, bereft of texture and being. To stare upon it was to stare through the world itself, to whatever lay beyond.

“Child.” She reached out a hand. Hungry eyes glittered like coal. “Come to me.”

The sense of belonging returned, stronger than ever. Calenne stood paralysed as the chamber collapsed. She was content to be so, and hated herself for it.

Malatriant drifted closer. The skirts of a fibrous dress trailed behind her like smoke. Yowling faces formed in the cloth. They scattered as the threads contorted with fresh movement.

“You feel it, don’t you? Our bond.”

“No,” croaked Calenne. “I’m Calenne Trelan, daughter of the Phoenix. We’re nothing alike.”

A stone slab shattered against the floor to her left. Dust stung her throat.