“She needs a master,” the taller of the humanlike shadows declared. She had to yell to be heard, and her voice was high and melodic. A child, Merik thought at the same time he realized the language she used: old Arithuanian. He’d never actually heard it spoken aloud before.

“She needs a master,” the girl repeated. Then the second shadow piped up: “And Sirmaya says that for now, it’ll have to be you.” She laughed, the delighted sound of a child feeling genuine pleasure, and for the first time since Merik’s awakening, the puppy’s cries faded to silence. Its shadowy form shifted. Then unfurled, stretching into a creature far larger than the two girls—and larger than Merik too.

“You’ll have to hurry,” the first girl said. “Because the ice is hungry, and if you don’t break free, it will eat the baby. But you can do it, Wind King. I saw it, and so it will be.”

“However,” the second girl inserted, “there’s one thing you have to do once you’re free: you have to find our father. Right, Lizzie?”

A shadowy nod. “Sirmaya tells me he’s in Poznin right now. He calls himself the Raider King, though I don’t believe it’s a name he gave himself. Find him and help him,” she added, no begging in her childish voice. Only command. “His goal is a noble one, if misguided in the end. Now come along, Cora. We have work to do.” She grasped at the smaller girl. Then together they turned, and together they left, vanishing shadows soon absorbed by blue.

Which left only the puppy still waiting nearby. It was whining again and beneath its shrill cries, a crunching, crackling sound tore out. It vibrated through the ice, juddered Merik’s whole body, and through the blue that clouded his eyes, he glimpsed frozen shards bursting up from the floor.

The child had been right: if he didn’t hurry, the ice would eat the puppy just as it had eaten him.

The puppy’s whines turned to screams, and without thought, Merik found himself fighting. Punching and kicking and calling to winds in a tomb made of ice. With each howl of canine pain, he clawed. With each wail, he slashed with tiny razors of wind. Until he too was howling and wailing and screaming, like the puppy being ripped apart.

Then abruptly he and his magic were free. One moment, the ice still imprisoned Merik. The next, he was erupting forth on a thousand vicious winds. Each of the winds was so small it was insignificant, but when corralled together, they had become a cyclone.

He toppled forward, his winds razing outward to crush any ice that chained the puppy down. Yet as he collapsed to the frozen floor, he saw it was no puppy at all—at least not in the traditional sense.

It was a storm hound.