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Feet away, Atticus froze. Framed by the light of the hallway, his silhouette was rigid, head cocked to the side as if he might honor his unfortunate mage’s final request. Good.

“Speak, Orpheus. Before I lose my nerve.”

“Give me something,” he begged, allowing the adrenaline pump of his blood to reach his voice, thick and syrupy with a plea. “Anything. Please. So that I…I don’t have to be conscious, now and…when the time comes. Please!”

The hard line of Atticus’ shoulders softened. Orpheus almost felt guilty when he turned around to meet his eyes. “I can do that.”

Just as he predicted, the bag lowered to the ground beside Atticus, and Orpheus would only get this one chance.

He shoved his good leg beneath him and lunged.

He collided with Atticus straight on and sent them both sprawling. It was a sad display. Tears sprang to his eyes when he rolled off Atticus and hit the ground chin first, chain seized taunt before he could reach but it was close enough. He kicked out with his good leg, caught the bag with his boot, and flung it up.

Like a film played back in slow motion, the contents tumbled out, the leather roll of tools and needles and over a half dozen vials, two of which Orpheus locked on—his own vial of blood, and Gwen’s.

Time slammed back to speed and he lunged, made a pained sound as he reached for his vial and dragged it into his chest.

“Damn you,” Atticus snarled, shoving up from the ground, the back of his wrist pressed to his lip. Blood flecked the ground when he pulled it away and reached to wrest Orpheus’ hands free. “Give that back!” Orpheus put up just enough fight to make it seem real, giving up before Atticus broke his fingers all over again when he pried each back from the vial of blood. Orpheus held his breath when Atticus sat back with a wild snarl, vial held triumphantly, the vial under Orpheus’ hip crunching worryingly into the floor.

Duluth reached him before Serval did, big hands closing down over Orpheus’ throat to shove him onto his stomach. But the vial rolled into the softness of his belly with the shift in position, and Orpheus closed his eyes in relief.

“Leave him conscious.” The blackening edges of his vision receded while Atticus stuffed the vial of blood and tools back into his bag. Mouth pulled tight, he refused to meet Orpheus’ eyes, his movements frantic. “To think that would make a difference, you desperate fool.”

I’ll show you who’s the fool. Orpheus may be a coward and selfish, but he was no fool—not anymore. And he certainly wasn’t without teeth. Lore had made sure of that.

Only once their footsteps faded and Sanctuary’s mournful wail rose from the night did Orpheus gather Gwen’s vial of blood into his hands.

This is it, he thought. Nothing is stopping me now.

Soon, Gwen would come—because she always came—and Orpheus would take what the world had so cruelly stolen from him.

No matter the cost.

No matter the sacrifice.

Magic would be his again.

Interlude

Rumors

“She has a mage, did you hear?”

In the following months rumors turn to warnings, and then an imminent threat.

“How the hell are we supposed to defend against magic?”

The foremen don’t even try to keep their stories secret. Rumors spread like wildfire, talk of a powerful dark sorcerer supporting the Empress’ war campaign and magic that will eat a man alive.

“The dark flame is what they’re calling it,” a foreman hisses to his superior on his way up the shaft from his shift. “Powers her machines and makes her near invincible.”

Fenrir thinks of the farmhouse’s cellar and the kind of dungeon a dark wizard might create his spells within and discovers himself smiling.

“Killed the scientists up in that fucking mountain bunker, you heard? The ones experimenting on all those kids.”

Sounds like they deserved it, Fenrir keeps to himself, leaning against the lift cage’s wall and whistling to himself.

“What do you think, Rawkner? Some of us are leaving while we still have the chance.”