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When Rakkley rose to power, he had performed magic experiments on prisoners. According to the detailed reports, not one of his test subjects had survived.

Dawson let out a breath. “Perhaps. Obryn is worried someone is working on a bootlegged Synth.”

The thought made the blood in her veins freeze.

“Impossible.”

Rakkley had been smart. According to records, he never shared Synth’s recipe with anyone, making him invaluable to Mercer. He was the only person who could produce Synth.

Nobody knew if Rakkley was still alive. After he was badly injured during an attack on one of his warehouses, he had simply disappeared. But even if he was alive, he couldn’t recreate Synth because the key ingredient had been destroyed. Not many details about Synth’s composition had been discovered, but its most vital component was an ancient relic: the Cursed Stone of Seilas. When defenders found it in Rakkley’s warehouse, the council had it demolished.

Synth was gone. Unless…Rakkley found a sample of it, which he could make endless copies of. After the rebellion won the war, the council had made sure every last drop of Synth was destroyed.

“This could be something new,” Dawson said.

“Do you have sources at the council?”

“Nobody I trust. I didn’t exactly make friends there.”

“Shocking, given your cheerful personality.”

He shot her a look. “At this point, we don’t have anything concrete. We need to keep looking.”

She realized another key piece of information. “You’re not sure who at the council the assassins worked for. You killed them so they couldn’t identify us.”

He didn’t flinch. “A dead man can’t talk.”

Rule number four: It doesn’t matter what you do as long as you don’t get caught.

12

Mira awoke from the rustling noise of a scroll being teleported. She blinked her eyes open as the scroll materialized in the air and dropped on her desk. By the delivery alone she could tell it wasn’t one of Dawson’s.

Meet me at the King’s Cup of Tea for breakfast. I have information about Dawson.

—Ella

Mira’s shoulder still hurt, but the ache was dull and no longer bit through her flesh as she got dressed. She was about to grab her jacket when she realized she must have left it at Dawson’s estate—including the vial with the unidentified substance from the Buckley house. She would have to go back and retrieve it.

The sun had just broken above the horizon, and the tops of the trees disappeared in a heavy fogbank. Mira trudged across the cobblestone entranceway, leading away from Ivercrest, until her feet found the uneven ground of the old forest. Since most people in Osterbury coin traveled to nearby places, there were far fewer roads and walking paths than in Yharvan. She stepped over broken branches and winding roots until she arrived in Tallan. The town was a quick coin travel away, but Mira didn’t mind the walk to clear her head.

She hadn’t seen Tallan since before the war, aside from pictures in the paper that had detailed the town’s destruction. But now, there were no signs of damage.

Preserved against the change of time, Tallan clung to its glory days with an iron fist. Buildings nestled together in soft colors of beige and yellow with ornate decorations reminiscent of the time when, hundreds of years ago, a Wielder king (the last before the formation of the council) had his summer residence there. The evidence of it was everywhere in the statues of the king sprinkled across the town, the names of streets, murals detailing his triumphs, and even sweets in the king’s likeness. It was still, or so Tallians wanted to believe, a town worthy of a king.

This cold winter morning was no different. Shopkeepers arranged their window displays, readying to open the doors and welcome customers. Signs were polished to perfection. The smell of fresh bread wafted from the famous bakery at the town square. Waitresses still wore the same outdated uniforms. Silly white hats and aprons.

Spires of temples and abbeys in different shapes and sizes poked over the flat rooftops of shops and taverns. Even the snow seemed to have settled perfectly on them. As if that, too, had been arranged. Tallan always seemed a bit too perfect. Too neat. Sugar-dipped.

And there, on top of the hill, stood the castle of the late king. Its large stone walls worn smooth over the years—perhaps the one thing Tallan couldn’t control.

As a kid, Mira had walked these cobblestone streets for hours with her parents. They wound through the city like a nervous system, narrowing in parts until she felt the buildings were about to touch.

The metal sign for the King’s Cup of Tea, displaying a cup and a bejeweled crown, swung silently in the air. As far as the eye could see, there seemed to be a competition of whose sign could be the most ostentatious. Mira wiped the snow from her shoes before she entered. The warm air in the café was a welcome change. Black-and-white pictures adorned the wooden paneling on the walls. Mira was small enough to not have to duck, but the ceiling was low. Antique café mugs hung on hooks above the counter.

Ella sat by the window, her fluffy scarf still wrapped around her as she sipped her coffee.

“I ordered us the breakfast special,” Ella explained when Mira sat down.