In the dark, Nic clutched the fine woven fabric of Falken’s coat, following him as he led the way through Divinity Castle’s network of secret passageways. His exceptional night-time vision made him an ideal leader here, she had to give him that. Her memory of the Contarini maps was perfect, but it didn’t do her any good in complete blackness.

Only the rare pinprick of firelight beamed through peepholes fashioned in the walls. The knowledge of who did what in the privacy of their...

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Nic tried to quiet her breathing while she and Falken hid in her arcanir-weave cloak, her back to his chest, his arms around her, her legs tucked between his thighs. Nice and cozy, one might say, except for the entire castle of guards out for their blood.

Many sets of steps stormed beyond the guest room’s closed door. Her cloak would shield them from earthsight, but if anyone opened the door, Shade would be their only hope. She kept two throwing knives ready, just in case.

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As the glowing anima figures departed, Nic beckoned for Falken to approach the wall in the dying daylight, just beneath a crumbling statue of a gargoyle. This section bordered a derelict district, but they only had a small window to make it to the castle, and they still had the wards to contend with.

Moss and dirt flattened on the cobbles, shaped like bootprints heading toward her—and the hedge she crouched in. When she opened her eye beneath the eyepatch, his tall frame shone...

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Throwing her hood back on, Nic spun away from Falken in the crowd. “Meet me at the Frozen Cello,” she hissed over her shoulder. His eyes flashed for a moment, then he darted away through the stalls as she did the same.

Four of the Divine Guard took off after him, garbed in their distinctive blue military overcoats. They wouldn’t dare use battle magic among the Contarini, who wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate anyone, Divinity included, most painfully if threatened. But the Divine...

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Buried deep in her hood, Nic sat across from Falken by the window of The Frozen Cello. He remained hooded as well, even as he ate the goat-meat stew and drank the mulled wine, his harsh features and wisps of his snow-white hair occasionally visible.

“Have a fondness for certain human things?”

He shrugged. “My people can be overprotective. Stew and wine might not be the mortal threats they were made out to be,” he said with a half-laugh and a grin.

Around the dim tavern,...

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