“Hail to thee, Lawbreaker. Hail to thee, Prince of Swords.” He whispered Xaltorath’s mocking words to himself. He’d done just what Xaltorath had wanted: freed the demons. He’d also slain the emperor. Then he’d reclaimed the sword Urthaenriel, the Ruin of Kings. And according to the Devoran Prophecies, what was in store for the person who accomplished those things? That lucky bastard would go on to destroy the Quuros Empire—and quite possibly the world.

Did it make a difference if Kihrin didn’t want to?

How many people did he know who’d tried to escape the game of prophecies played by demons, dragons, and gods? Didn’t matter. They ended up involved, anyway. The Eight Immortals had personally dropped Kihrin into this mess in the hope of subverting the prophecies. Yet he wondered if they had really known what they were doing. The demons seemed to be winning.

Hail to thee, Thief of Souls.

He set down his pack and put a shoulder to the crossbeam over the door. The heavy wood groaned before it finally pulled free, and he dropped it to one side.

The moment he opened the latch, the outer door crashed open. The wind howled like a dragon’s roar. Kihrin could only make out silhouettes of the town’s nearby buildings as the storm turned the afternoon into night. But Kihrin didn’t care if the weather was unsafe for man or beast.

He started to step outside.

Started to. Then he heard a ferocious whistling. A massive white blur flew overhead; the shape flipped around and landed with a thunderous boom. Wood from nearby—houses, tents, buildings—cracked and splintered. Stone crushed and scattered.

Lightning outlined the draconic shape before him. It wasn’t Sharanakal, the volcanic dragon who had sought to keep him prisoner. This was a different dragon, white and gray and silver, blue eyes sparkling gemlike.

Staring at him.

Time froze, stretched. He thought, Her eyes are the same color as mine. Only afterward would he realize he’d assumed the dragon’s gender. Time snapped forward. The dragon spread her wings wide and pulled her head back. She whipped her head forward as razor-sharp ice shards rushed from her huge mouth in a hurricane-force blast.

He scrambled to shut the opening, but it was a two-person job.

Then Janel stood next to him, grabbing at the door’s edge. She lifted the bar and slammed it down into position as the ice shards hit. The barrier shuddered while Janel leaned against it.

“Your sword!” she shouted. “Pierce your sword through the wood! Nothing can withstand Urthaenriel!”

He unsheathed the dagger at his side, which transformed into a slender white-silver sword.