There was a dead man slumped at the foot of a tree, his face hidden as if he had fallen asleep on his last watch. She knelt beside him—she wasn’t afraid. “What do I have to do?” she asked. The storm cloud whirled between the trunks, the dead leaves rustling on the ground.

He raised his head, and though his face was blackened and decayed, she did not turn away. “She who spins the cloud weaves the storm,” he whispered, in a voice that smelled of sweetness and rot.

And, at last, she understood.

Lena woke to find the butterfly settled on her forehead, the realization fresh in her mind. The butterfly fluttered out in front of her eyes, flapping and puffing wildly, as if trying to tell her something important. The pain in her heart and throughout her whole body was nearly unbearable—it was like someone had stretched her out, cracked her open.

“Emris?” She turned her head, grimacing at the movement.

He was standing a few feet to her left, and she saw that he was holding a small storm cloud suspended between his hands, and sweat was pouring down his face, his three parallel scars shining in the gloom. The cloud growled and jolted, lashing out with streaks of blue that threw ghastly light across the chamber.

“By the power of Faul, I banish thee, Chaos,” Emris said.

The words, the rumbling cloud, spurred a memory. Lena looked down at her chest, expecting her heart to be bared—but of course there was nothing but her gray Faul’s uniform, dirtied and scorched by her adventures. The butterfly flapped over her heart and fluttered pointedly toward the storm cloud.

Then she realized. The cloud was her heart.

“Emris, no!” She managed to roll off the sarcophagus, landing hard and painfully on her stomach. She raised herself onto her elbows. Constance was unmasked and bound by some power to the wall, her lips apparently sealed, her eyes flashing angrily. Her cane—the pommel glowing—lay abandoned on the ground. The lamps flickered. All around, the dead stirred like restless sleepers.

“By the power of Faul, I bind thee to the void,” Emris said. Lena edged onto her hands and knees, her muscles shuddering in protest, and pushed herself into a crouch. She could tell it was a struggle for Emris to force the words from his lips: the storm was restless, strong, flashing and bulging wildly between his hands. Lena staggered unsteadily to her feet. Her body screamed in agony and she felt her vision blur. She gasped, but clung to consciousness. The butterfly had settled on her shoulder, and she felt with sudden certainty that her connection to the creature was the single thread that bound her to the spell, to life.