She scrambled to her feet and ran along the path, which veered steeply uphill. By her reckoning, she was very close to the city. She panted as she climbed, pulling the purple robes up over her knees.

The city walls appeared from the storm cloud as if they’d leaped out of the soil. The rumble of hooves grew closer and closer, and she hurried to find the secret narrow opening under the wall. At least whoever was following her didn’t know about this—they would likely lose her trail here, and find the locked gates instead. But what of Emris? She pushed away the painful thought, dived onto her stomach, and pulled herself through, the dead rosebush scratching her hands and snagging on the masked god’s long purple robes. As she emerged on the other side, she shrugged off the tangled outer layer—beneath, she still wore the simple gray uniform of Faul’s temple.

She looked up, and her heart plummeted. Whatever she’d expected to find, this was worse. There was smoke in the air, a sulfurous tang distinct from the foul electric odor of the storm cloud—and she heard shouts, then the clash of metal, the crackle of fire. Her stomach lurched. She ran forward and saw a building burning on the main thoroughfare, acrid smoke mingling with the cloud.

She ran uphill toward the castle. On her way she noticed smashed windows, wide-open doors, the storm cloud snaking into cramped living quarters, flickering over the chaos inside. Belongings were strewn, abandoned, across the pavement. And but for the voices, which she realized were echoing from farther up the mountain, the lower town was silent and seemed to be deserted.

Lena was about to pass another open door when she saw something curious: the hatch to the crypt in the center of the floor was slightly ajar. She approached it uneasily, a stab of fear twisting in her gut.

She crouched by the trapdoor, smelled the familiar odor of her old life: dust, mold, stuffy air. But in the faint light falling through the gap, she glimpsed something … something else. A cold sweat prickled the back of her neck.

She reached out, pushed the door slightly further ajar—and instantly staggered back, unable to breathe.

A withered hand lay on the top step—darkened, rotten flesh clinging to bone. It was attached to a black-clad arm leading down into darkness. She could see the vague shape of a head, turned away from her, and a long-robed body.

It was as if the person … the Ancestor … had been trying to escape.

She quickly replaced the hatch door, her breath coming in sharp gasps. She pushed a heavy wooden chair over the top, though it was pointless: every house in town had an identical trapdoor. If the dead wanted out, they’d find a way. Perhaps they already had.