Marvel awoke with a silent scream in his throat. Memories of the last moments before he lost consciousness flooded back—ripping sounds all around him, louder than his heartbeat or the roar of the battle. Fresh blood on his face, its scent strong in the air.

Tucked away in a cave, he had prayed to Satis and the gods from Tutor Baylin's tomes, hoping for a miracle to save them. But he still saw his friends fall. Pidge first. Then, Flynn. Adia.

Then a golem had sighted him, its powerful fangs full of rot and hunger, its four pairs of cruel eyes fixed on him. Frozen, he watched as its wicked claws gleamed in the sunlight, slashing at him.

His heart pounded as he frantically tried to push his intestines back into his body. Blood gushed down his armour and legs, the heat of it drenching his skin, dragging him into darkness.

Tears slid down his face. He continued to scream, though no sound escaped him.

His hands met the cool, metal surface of his armour, smooth and undamaged.

Confusion struck him immediately. He could feel. But he had died. Where was death?

Satis, he thought, finding himself free of pain or injury. Satis' teeth, I'm alive. How am I alive?

Mindless fright began pounding behind his ribs, threatening to blank out his mind. No. He gritted his teeth. No. I can't lose my mind now.

Battle is hard, Tutor Baylin always said in their travels during the War. A tangle of skill, luck, and strategy. One cannot win if one is tripped by emotions.

Marvel heard her voice, cool and calm in his mind. Focus, boy. Focus.

He forced his breathing to steady, his heartbeat to slow. Sentiment slid away, leaving him with the cool distance of reason and observation.

Detached, he noted that he was lying on his back in a dimly lit space. No light source. The ground beneath him felt like packed earth, though he couldn't move his arms much. They were trapped on either side by soft, fleshy weights he couldn't identify. The air on his face was chilly, and his nostrils were assaulted by an overwhelming, iron scent.

Don't panic. He could feel himself getting riled up again. Think, you ass!

First question: How in Satis' Seven Paradises was he still alive?

Was he alive? He raised a hand to feel his breath. Yes, he was still alive. But how?

A horrifying thought struck him. He slapped a hand over his neck and face— the only parts uncovered by enchanted armour— and gasped at finding them smooth and free of bites or claw marks. Panic left him in a whoosh of breath. He wasn't a golem, thank the gods.

But that still left him wondering how he was still breathing.

Fusion magic? It was the only thing he could think of. But who would have the power, or even care enough to bring him back from the dead?

That's not important now, he told himself. He could solve that mystery later.

Second question: Where am I?

He sat up to examine his surroundings, an action that didn't yield much more information. If he weren't such a bloody maverick, he could have used soullight or conjured a torch. Instead, he had to wait for his eyes to adjust to the dark.

He felt around him. His hands met softness covering something firm beneath. A metallic smell rose from whatever it was. His fingers traced it, dipping into a cavity they found and meeting a yielding squishiness.

Eugh. He shuddered. Thank Satis for Flynn's spare gauntlets.

He caught something ropy between his fingers. As the dim light brightened slightly, he squinted at it. After a few moments, he could see exactly what he was holding: a single string of someone's intestines.

He let go immediately, his stomach sending bile up his throat. Clamping his teeth on his lower lip, he scuttled away from the body as far as he could.

Wait. The ground, too, was soft.

Reluctantly, he looked down and found himself sprawled over three more bodies. In every direction he was surrounded by corpses— some missing their insides or limbs, some torn in half or mauled beyond recognition.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He made a high noise in his throat.

Glancing at the body in front of him, he discovered he could recognize it. The tattoo on its bare shoulder was fam. A dragon in the style of the Western Isles, gotten on his friend's nineteenth birthday.

Flynn. Marvel felt his detachment crumble. Oh, Flynn, I'm so sorry. If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have been here.

His family wouldn't even have a body to bury.

What had happened to Pidge, Adia, and the rest of the group? Was it the same thing that had happened to Marvel himself? Had nobody else really survived?

He glanced down at the thick, drying blood over his breastplate, trousers, and legs.

Why was he alive? Most of the others in the group had been Trainee Level or higher. Marvel was a maverick, not even a formal student. Useless. Pathetic. Why hadn't one of them been brought back instead of him?

And the things that had killed him— were they coming back?

He snapped his head up, scanning for an exit. He had to get out. He couldn't stay here a moment longer. A golem might come in and finish him off at any moment.

By the brightening light, he realised he was in a cave. Stalagmites, dirt, rocks— the floor was covered by bodies. A dim corner of the cave seemed to shine with greater light.

An exit?

Only one way to find out. Gritting his teeth, he headed for the brighter light. He tried not to think about the fact that he was stepping on the bodies of people he might have known. Grieve them later. Survive now.

Marvel climbed over corpses, struggling to keep his balance. He sidestepped Flynn's body, then paused. Overcome with guilt, he slid two ornate daggers from his dead friend's baldric. Given to him by his father, Flynn had told Marvel. He would see that Flynn's father got them, even if he couldn't have his son's body.

He continued toward the exit, grimacing at the wet, squelching noises of flesh giving beneath his boots. He swallowed at the snap of bones. Only a dozen or so mages had fought in the battle. Not enough people to result in this many bodies. It could only mean the golems had gotten to the villagers too. The rock in Marvel's chest grew heavier.

Though he wasn't a mage, he still felt responsible for the innocent people that had died.

His spine straightened at a sudden bleating sound— a human groan. Someone was still alive somewhere in the cave. Someone who might need his help.

He hesitated.

It was doubtful he could defend himself against a golem if he came upon one. Adding another person to that scenario would be idiotic. He couldn't do magic. Attempting a rescue anyone would be suicide.

But what if it's another mage? If he could find them, even injured, he would have a better chance at survival than he currently did. The least he could do was check.

He moved as quietly as possible toward the groaning. The cave lightened as he approached. It had to be soullight, from a mage's centre.

Marvel's hopes rose as he spotted the mage—intact, no missing body parts or visible wounds. The figure sat up, head tipped back, a hand clutching his side, blood dribbling down his mouth.

On the downside, it was a mage Marvel knew well. Red hair, red beard, tanned skin, an eyepatch. Even in the low light, Marvel could make out the dark grey scores of lines winding around the man's bare forearms. Marks that signalled how many golems he had managed to kill in his time at the Adept Level.

There had to be, at least, two hundred. Quinn had killed a lot of golems. Perhaps that skill was why he was still alive, and Marvel was fully willing to take advantage of it.

Still, Marvel barely managed not to sigh as Quinn's eye fixed on him. Where was the justice of the gods when people like Quinn survived and Flynn died?

"I was nearly certain you'd ignore me and run," Quinn said gruffly, his voice strained from internal injuries. "It's your only talent, after all."

Fuck you, Marvel shot back inwardly, but lowered his head in recognition of Quinn's rank.

"Adept Quinn," he said, with an effort at humility. "It is fortunate that Your Honour has survived among the many who have perished."

"Fortunately for you. Can't say the same for me." Quinn scowled. "Someone useful would have been better, but I suppose I must be grateful for whatever boon the gods bestow."

Marvel said nothing. Defiance only earned him misery. Besides, Quinn could be his way out of here safely.

"How did you survive?" Quinn asked.

Marvel's heart raced. He didn't know what had brought him back, but Fusion magic was forbidden. He'd be called an abomination and executed if suspected.

To his relief, Quinn scoffed. "Never mind. You probably hid, like you always do."

He was grateful for Quinn's self-centeredness.

"Your Honour is always right." Marvel dared not look away from his boots. "Could your servant inquire about Your Honour's wounds?"

One corner of Quinn's lips curled. "Not unless you can heal them." He shook his head. "The attackers wanted to capture me and kill the others."

Marvel fought the urge to roll his eyes. Quinn was just an Adept. The golems that ambushed them were Fourth Circle or higher. Far too much bother for one Adept.

Quinn seemed to realise what Marvel was thinking. "Just my theory. Anyway," he said quickly, switching subjects, "my centre has taken a blow, and we can't get out without backup. You need to call for help."

Marvel instantly regretted checking on Quinn. Now he couldn't escape. They would both be vulnerable unless Marvel abandoned Quinn, which would never be forgiven if they survived.

Confused, Marvel forgot etiquette. "You want me to do what?" At Quinn's scathing look, he quickly corrected himself. "Forgive your servant, Your Honour, but—"

"I'm aware your centre is weak," Quinn said. "And I don't care. You'll send a call to the Academy for help."

Marvel gaped. "B-but how?"

"With the motivation that we both will die here if you don't." Quinn met his eyes with a hard look. "You wanted the chance to prove yourself, didn't you? Then do it."

Do it. As if it were that easy. As if he hadn't spent the last ten years failing to produce even the smallest spark of athar to reach Novice level.

"Don't tell me," drawled Quinn mockingly. "You can't manage a spell any five-year-old could do." A dry bark of laughter followed. "I always felt bad for you. Pushed around, sentenced to cleaning up after Old Baylin, polishing Caspian's boots, doing his laundry, and the chores of anyone else who told you to forever. I respected you because you stayed on despite everything."

Marvel's hands tightened into fists at his side.

"Now, you won't even try a maverick child's little trick. It's not bravery or determination keeping you at the Academy. It's fear." A cruel smile curved Quinn's mouth. "You didn't come on this assignment to kill your first golem, did you? And the worst part is you dragged your friends with you. Adia. Pidge. Flynn."

Flinching, Marvel spat, "That's not true."

"Prove it then." Quinn's voice was a stone-cold challenge. "Make the fire call."

It was foolish. Marvel hadn't considered himself prone to foolish behaviour before today, but what was one more act of idiocy?

Grinding his teeth, hurt pride and guilt tightening his body, Marvel readied himself to perform the spell. It was simple. Basic. Maverick children could do it. Most maverick children didn't have a centre as weak as his. He couldn't manage any magic because he didn't have enough energy to power a spell. Unlike most mages, he wasn't good at harvesting athar around his centre to gain energy.

There was no way he could do a simple fire call.

But he'd already died today and would likely die again soon. Why not try?

He reached for his centre and grasped at nothing. Shock made him stumble. What the—

"Anytime now, kid." Quinn's voice urged him.

Marvel tried again, clearing his mind, searching for any trace of magical energy. Nothing. That wasn't supposed to be possible. The only way a person could lose their magical centre was if they died.

If they died.

Shit.

"Kid, if you don't hurry up, we're going to be dead. Maybe you're eager to lose your worthless life, but don't take anyone else on your suicide mission."

Worthless life.

Marvel savagely raked through himself, searching for any trace of his magical centre, and stumbled mentally into something else. It was huge, larger than his centre, even larger than Quinn's probably was. Bright, like the sun—so bright it hurt to look at.

That's not mine, he thought. Yet, do I really care where it came from?

Not if it helped him do magic.

He drew on it, making the incantation for the fire call. Opened his palms. The athar around his core didn't push through him gently as Baylin's books and his mage friends described. It electrified him, scorching through his arrays like a meteor falling to earth.

He groaned, stumbling onto his hands and knees under the wave of stunning hurt.

Blazing tongues of fire burst into existence over him. He felt the heat of them, the blaze, the fierceness.

This is me. Ecstasy filled him. I did this. I just did some fucking magic.

Quinn swore. "I asked you to make a fire call, not try to set this whole place on fire!"

"I'm not doing it on purpose!" Marvel shot back, breathless as the pain faded under the wonder he felt. How had that even happened?

No time to think. He shook himself and said into the fire, "Aisling Pelen."

Closing his eyes, he pictured the candle burning at his best friend's desk in her rooms at the Academy. He sent his thoughts into the flames: his memory of the battle, the village where it happened. Come quickly, Aisling. Please. I don't want to die here.

Suddenly, the fire blew out. Marvel opened his mouth to curse, maybe try again, when he sensed it—something terrible, something dangerous. Something that, strangely, made him feel a sudden deep hunger.

Quinn seemed to sense it too.

"Play dead," he hissed, stony-faced. "You don't have much of an aura anyway so they won't sense you. Whatever happens, stay concealed. You hear me, kid?"

Marvel obeyed immediately. He fell flat on his back, pushed two bodies aside, and squeezed in between them. He tried to hold his breath to avoid smelling their blood. He might have asked, What about you?

He did not.

A bright orange light chased away the semi-gloom of the cave. More soullight? Marvel made out two of the horrors that had killed him and the rest of the group at the battle.

One was a giant Tusks, rotting skin, with horns sticking out of its body. Not being a mage, he couldn't tell how powerful it was exactly. Judging from the kind of golems that had attacked him earlier, Fourth Circle was a fair assumption.

If Quinn weren't injured, he could probably match it in a fight. As he was now, it was doubtful he could handle even the other golem alone. The other was a twelve-foot Stomper with loose, sagging skin, probably First Circle.

Marvel's fear did nothing to quench the twist of hunger in his gut.

He did stop thinking about it the moment the woman walked into the cave.

She was about eight feet tall, larger than any ordinary maverick or Mage. She wore a hood, but he could tell she was broad-shouldered and muscular under her cloak. Even though he couldn't sense her magic, her height and presence gave her power away.

A warlock. An evil mage who used Fusion magic—the same kind that created golems. He'd never seen one until now.

Her height marked her as probably a Grandmaster, the second highest level in mage philosophy.

Quinn definitely didn't stand a chance against her.

Marvel found himself praying to Satis that none of them would notice him. But Quinn, sitting with his back against the wall, defiance burning in his eyes instead of fear, didn't even try to hide. He locked gazes with the woman.

"So," she said, "you two managed not to ruin the job completely. Congratulations."

For a heart-stopping moment, Marvel thought she was speaking to him and Quinn. He nearly cried with relief when she turned to the Fourth Circle golem. "Fortunately for you, you get to live another day. How in Bardot's locks did you figure it was a smart thing to put the target with the rest of the dead?"

"Servant of Havoc," Quinn boomed with a confidence Marvel could only dream of. "I demand you tell me what exactly you're—"

Without warning, his voice was cut short, though his mouth still moved. Alarmed, he clutched at his throat, his lips moving to no avail. Quinn's face hardened as he looked at the warlock, though his skin turned pale.

Marvel swallowed hard. Whether from fright or envy, he wasn't sure. She hadn't even moved a finger. Would he ever be as powerful as that?

In one blink, she was in front of him, walking past him to crouch before Quinn. The doomed man remained rebellious, spitting in her face even as she raised a hand over him. The next second, the air sizzled with powerful magic beyond Marvel's comprehension.

After a tense moment, she muttered, "It's not him."

She turned and snarled at the golems. "It's not him! You mongrels! What am I supposed to do? You've doomed me; you've doomed us all."

Instantly, the two golems began to unravel, like fabric returning to threads, right in front of Marvel's eyes. Once again, she hadn't spoken or made any of the movements he usually associated with spells. And yet…

His heart pounded with terror. There was no way she couldn't sense him, powerful as he was.

At the moment, Quinn mouthed something likely obscene and defiant. Marvel readied himself to watch the Adept unmade like the golems. What came next was worse. She tilted her head curiously at him, and then he began to dissolve, his flesh liquefying and melting in streams of steaming wax where he lay.

Marvel fought to stifle a scream as she suddenly came to her feet. He hadn't even seen her stand.

In another breath, she was gone, leaving him alone in the cave, surrounded by piles of corpses killed by the golems, probably made by her hand.

Then the room began to burn, the bodies beside Quinn catching fire. A wall of heat slammed into Marvel, and he knew he had to run.

Scared out of his mind, Marvel stumbled to his feet and raced against the flames quickly spreading around him, toward the entrance from which the woman and the golems had come. He fell several times, tripping over cloth and flesh, but picked himself up. He couldn't stop unless he wanted to burn with the rest of the bodies.

Finally, he reached the cave's entrance, gasping at the moonless night beyond. He threw himself over the threshold—

—face-first into another pair of golems, a Tusks and Stomper. Their milky, dead-eyed gazes locked on him, and Marvel couldn't help the hysterical laughter that escaped his lips. Why had he thought he would survive this? When had he ever caught a break in his life?

Nothing for it. He slipped out Flynn's daggers and backed away, holding them with shaking hands. It's over. There goes any chance of becoming a mage.

For the second time in one day, Marvel Satis was going to die.