Page 243 of Burn of the Everflame

The sound of creaking metal pulled my focus back to the cell. Luther was holding the door for Doriel while Taran draped blankets over the mortal men and positioned them to look asleep.

“Diem . . .”

I groaned. “I don’t have answers for you, Tel. I know how I’m supposed to feel about him, but I don’t. He and I are connected by more than just blood. I have more in common with him than I⁠—”

“Diem.”

“What?”

“Where’s Ophiucae?”

My head snapped to the south, and my heart went as dark as the empty expanse. Ophiucae was nowhere in sight.

I barely managed a hoarse “stay here” before I was flying down the library steps. I ran to the cell, gasping for air. “Have to leave . . . Ophiucae . . . I don’t know where he⁠—”

“What’s going on here?”

The voice wasn’t Ophiucae’s, thank the Undying Fire, but its owner was almost worse. Francis, Vance’s third-in-command, had emerged from the city, striding toward the cell.

“What are you doing with the prisoners?” he called out.

Luther grabbed me by the arm and dipped his chin to keep his hood low. “Taking them to Ophiucae. His orders.”

“When Father Vance and Brother Brant are gone, all orders are supposed to go through me,” Francis said.

“I guess the glowing bastard doesn’t trust you,” Taran chimed in.

Francis went pale. “Why wouldn’t he trust me?”

Taran shrugged, then grabbed Doriel and roughly dragged them up the library steps. Luther and I started to follow, but Francis moved into our path.

“What’s he planning to do with her?” he asked.

“Come ask him, if you want,” Taran called back. “I bet he loves being questioned.”

Luther quickly nudged me away. Francis watched us, taking a few steps to follow, then stopped. He hesitated, then started again.

“City’s too empty,” Luther said loudly. “Where’s the evening patrol?”

Francis stopped again behind us, scanning the city with a frown.

“Heard they found some whiskey,” Taran added. “They’re probably drunk by now.”

Francis scowled. “They should know better. We’re vulnerable with our army away.” He took one last look at us, then turned back for the city. “I’ll check in with you two later.”

Relief washed over me as we scurried up the steps, trading tight-lipped looks.

“Wait,” Francis called out. “I didn’t get your names.”

“Brother Phélippius,” Luther said. “From Arboros.”

I cringed. He couldn’t have picked a more Descended-sounding name if he tried.

Taran looked at me and winked. “I’m Brother Henri, from Lumnos.”

My stomach dropped. Francis had been the Lumnos Guardian in charge of assigning members to missions. He knew Henri well—well enough to be aware that he was not the seven-foot, hulking mass of muscle under Taran’s cloak.

“Run,” I whispered.