For just an instant, as he stood staring off into the night-shrouded distance, he considered casting off everything he had become as a Knight of the Word and reverting to how he had been when he was with Michael. It was an unexpected impulse, one born of his frustration with his present life and regrets for lost pieces of his last. His memories of his time with Michael—memories other than those of Michael’s descent into madness—still resonated. Good memories. One was of times like this, when they would seek out enemy patrols come in search of them. They would strip down to almost nothing, paint themselves with camouflage, and go hunting their enemies with nothing but knives. They would stalk them and kill them and then disappear back into the night as if they had never been there. It was a game they played, a challenge they gave themselves, dangerous and seductive. Surviving it provided validation of who and what they were, of their ability to confront and defeat the death that was constantly stalking them.

Get in and get out. Leave no footprints. Those were Michael’s words of caution to him each time they played the game. Leave no sign that you were ever there. That you even existed. Leave nothing but the bodies of the dead to show that death stalked their enemies, too.

Logan Tom thought about how it would feel to do that again, to turn back the clock, to strip away everything and go hunting. He thought about abandoning the staff of his office and taking up one of the big hunting knives instead. He would shed his identity as a Knight of the Word. He would become for just that night a nameless, faceless hunter—a predator, a warrior—confronting his enemies with nothing but his skill and strength and weapons that carried no magic upon which he could rely to defend himself. It was a ridiculous idea, but there it was. He let it linger for just a moment, savoring the freedom it offered and the intense sense of satisfaction it would provide, and then he cast it aside. There was too much at stake for such madness, and he was no longer the boy he had been, no longer the student to Michael’s teacher, no longer the willing follower of a man who would one day try to kill him. He took a deep breath and exhaled, tightening his hands about his black staff. “Show me where they are, Trim,” he said to the owl.