“Answer.” I try to sound authoritative. “Or do you not know who questions you? Bow to Jacas Adicio”—I nod to my father—“orange-robe savant to the wolf phantom, Magistrate of all Palrio, and lord of the Throne of Baiseen.”

The middle one lifts his head. He’s not dressed in the robes of a savant or an Aturnian scout. He wears traveler’s garb: leggings, tunic, riding coat, and high boots without a hint of mud. Their horses can’t be far away. “We’re lost, Your Magistrate, sir. Meaning no harm or trespass. If you just set us straight, we’ll be on our way.”

It’s a fair attempt at diplomacy, but unfortunately for this poor clod, his accent betrays him.

“All the way from Aturnia? You are indeed lost.” My father turns to me. “Did you track them down, Marcus?”

My chest swells as I start to answer. “It was—”

“I led the chase,” Petén cuts in as if I wasn’t going to give him half the credit. Which I was…probably.

“Fine,” Father says, though he doesn’t seem particularly pleased. I can’t remember the last time he was anything but frustrated with either of us. But then, it’s no secret he’s not been the same since my eldest brother was deemed marred. Losing his first son changed Father irrevocably.

While I blink sweat out of my eyes, the nearest captive makes to drop to one knee.

“Savant!” I shout.

“Shoot!” my father roars in command.

He means me.

I have the shot, ready and aimed, and I should have taken it by now. But the man is ten feet away. If I hit him at this range, with an arrow made to drop an elk, it’ll stream his guts all over the meadow.

As I hesitate, my father is out of his saddle in an instant and touching down to one knee. The second he does, the ground explodes, a rain of dirt and rock showering us. The horses’ heads fly up, ears pinning back, but they hold position as Father’s phantom lunges out of the earth. The size of a dire wolf, it opens its mouth, lips pulling back in a snarl. Still not clear of the ground, it begins to “call,” a haunting, guttural sound that can draw weapons from a warrior, water from a sponge, flesh from bone. Before the phantom lands, the men’s chests crack open in a spray of blood. Three hearts, still beating, tear out of their torsos and shoot straight into the phantom’s mouth. It clamps its jaws and, not bothering to chew, swallows them whole.