Chapter 16

After a week, Lindon could almost form a ball of Blackflame between his hands. It would explode immediately, so he’d taken to practicing bare-chested; otherwise, he would have burned away his outer robe on the second day.

Their attempts on the Striker Trial had been less than successful, as they had quickly realized that Yerin couldn’t destroy the targets. The black blobs floating behind the hazy wall of aura would just re-form if they were cut.

To destroy the targets, they needed Blackflame.

Lindon condensed another blob of dark fire, casting his palms in a deep crimson radiance. His mind and spirit were drawn to a point, utterly focused on his task, as beads of sweat rolled down his face.

The ball of burning madra between his palms swelled, growing until it was almost the size of a fist—a little more, and he could consider the first stage of the technique passed.

When he sent one more pulse of madra into the ball, it exploded.

He flipped onto his back, slamming his skull against the hard-packed earth and staring up into the blue strip of sky he could see through the opening to his canyon. His breaths came heavily as he tried to find his cycling rhythm, pulling his madra together for another attempt.

A red-tinged shadow loomed over him, and blazing red circles on fields of darkness swiveled to meet his eyes.

“Orthos,” Lindon panted, gingerly climbing to his feet so that he could bow. “It has been too long.”

The giant turtle grumbled something that might have been agreement. “I am not pleased,” he declared, snapping up a small boulder.

Lindon hurriedly pulled his sacred artist’s robe back up; he’d pushed it down to the waist, which was not a polite way to meet a guest. “Pardon, honored Orthos. I was not expecting a visitor.”

He had sensed Orthos’ presence growing closer, but the turtle had gotten close to the canyon many times over the last few months. He’d never entered. Besides, Lindon’s attention was devoted entirely to his half-formed Striker technique.

“With so much attention on your training,” Orthos said, “you should be making progress.” The last word was packed with such spite and rage that Orthos’ eyes went from red to the bright orange of an open flame. Lindon felt the radiance of the anger in his spirit, and he took a step back, instinctively cycling his madra for a fight.

Orthos snapped his head to one side, bottling up the anger again, mastering himself. “You see?” he said at last. “The pure madra I took from you is not enough to balance the corrosion any longer. I need to pour more power into you, and you are not ready. I am displeased.”

Orthos’ spirit was in better shape than when Lindon had first sensed it; the painful, burning heat was better contained, and now it moved in regular cycles instead of a wild mass of flames.

But it still felt like a volcano on the verge of erupting. “If you need some scales, I’ve Forged a few more,” Lindon said. He’d left his pack a few feet away, and he dug through it for a handful of blue-and-white translucent coins. He tossed them to Orthos, and they dissolved into pale blue streams in midair that sank into the turtle’s body.

If they made a difference, Lindon couldn’t see it.

“That will not be enough,” Orthos rumbled. “If it were, the Arelius family would have healed me already. They can afford more than a few low-grade scales.”

“I’m sure they would. They have great respect for you.”

Orthos snorted, blowing out a few inches of dark flames. “As they should. They serve me in return for my protection.”

Lindon hadn’t seen Orthos providing any protection; it seemed more like the Arelius family was protecting him. “Is that how you were injured?”

“Any dragon would defend what belongs to them,” he said dismissively. “Even if they died for it.” Orthos’ spirit was usually alight with arrogance, but he didn’t seem especially proud now, like he was talking about a usual chore.

“What threat required you to act personally?”

“A rogue Blackflame,” he said, as though it were obvious.

Eithan had said the Blackflames fell fifty years ago, but it hadn’t been so long since Orthos was driven mad by his own power. Were there still other Blackflames out there, struggling with their spirits as Orthos did with his?

If there were, would they see Lindon as a threat, or a potential recruit? Either possibility shook him.

Orthos dug a stone out of the dirt and popped it into his mouth. “This is a waste of time. Show me your ignorance, and I will instruct you.”

Before the turtle changed his mind, Lindon hurriedly adopted the basic cycling pattern lined out for this Striker technique, gathering madra in his hands. He held his palms only a few inches apart, focusing on the air between them, pushing madra into a ball.

The black flames flickered into being. They wanted to rush out, but Lindon held them in place, keeping them swirling in the air between his hands. He added another layer, then another, trembling with the effort of keeping the madra contained.

“I’ve seen enough,” Orthos said, knocking his front paw against Lindon’s hands. The Blackflame madra went out like a snuffed candle—fortunately not exploding—and turned away from Lindon. “I don’t know what the family called this technique, but it was made in imitation of a dragon’s breath.”

Lindon silently thanked Yerin.

“Watch me, and learn.” Orthos opened his jaws wide. Ruddy light gathered in his throat.

With both his eyes and his perception, Lindon focused on the technique. Madra flowed up from Orthos’ throat, gathering and stopping in the back of his throat. More and more madra poured into a black fireball that spun, faster and faster, until it grew to half the size of Lindon’s head.

Then Orthos compressed it so that it was no bigger than a fist, and poured more power into it.

The whole process only took a second or two, and Orthos packed down the energy three times, always keeping the ball of fire spinning. The turtle was holding the madra with his spirit, but he didn’t grip it tightly; he cupped it like an egg until he was ready to pack it down.

With a roar, Orthos released the technique.

Lindon had expected a rough cloud of flame billowing out of the turtle’s mouth. Instead, a dense, almost liquid-looking bar as thick as a man’s leg blasted into the sky. The Blackflame madra streamed into the air, smooth and compact, radiating heat.

The bar of black fire punched through a cloud, drilling a hole in the middle as it blasted into the sky.

Lindon stared up in awe. “It is an honor to be instructed…” He trailed off as he sensed a change in Orthos’ spirit.

The turtle stumbled away, each step thumping against the earth like he walked on a drum. His eyes burned orange, and Lindon felt such a confusing mix of emotion through their bond that he couldn’t separate one thread from another: anger, exhaustion, confusion, fear, and pride fueled one another, blazing into a hot mass.

There was a flutter of black robes, and Yerin came to a stop in front of Lindon, staring up into the sky. She raised her white blade to point at Orthos without looking.

“I don’t place a heap of bets, but if I had to bet a box of gold against a horse’s hair, I’d say that was your giant Blackflame turtle.”

“He’s not well at the moment,” Lindon said.

“You have a leash for him, true?”

Blackflame madra shot out of Orthos’ body like sparks from a campfire as he stumbled around, his spirit a mess of confusion.

“It’s spiritual damage built up in his channels. If I could get the Sylvan Riverseed—”

Yerin tackled him in the middle and scooped him up, throwing him over one shoulder. Before he could react, his world lurched as she leaped away.

Just in time. His spirit sent him a warning, and he flinched an instant before another wave of Blackflame blasted away a chunk of the cliff. Rocks the size of his torso rained down, and Orthos whirled on them, roaring like they were his ancestral enemies.

They passed through one red archway and into the forest of pillars before Yerin let him down. “Is he going to trail us?” she asked.

“I don’t think he remembers we were there,” Lindon said. “I’ll see if he notices me this time or not.”

Yerin’s scarred face froze. “You’re…turning back?”

“I don’t want to,” he said apologetically. “I left my pack back there.”

***

Usually, there wasn’t much for Cassias to do in running the Striker Trial. He could guide the spears to some degree, or empower them with his sword madra, but none of that would significantly increase the difficulty or value of the test.

His real role was going to come during the Ruler Trial, the most difficult of the three Blackflame Trials, so he spent most of his time packing that course’s reserves with power. They wouldn’t run through that like they did through the Enforcer Trial, he could guarantee it.

Cassias was reading reports when he sensed Orthos’ arrival. He’d grown up with stories of Orthos, so he was initially nervous, until he reminded himself of Lindon’s contract. The sacred beast should be much more stable than before.

That was a relief. If he went crazy, the children’s lives weren’t the only things at stake: this course was a loan from the Empire, and it was worth more than the Arelius family made in a year. If Orthos ruined it, Cassias would have to answer to the branch heads.

Now that he thought of it, maybe that was why Eithan had left him in charge…

Shaking his head, he returned to his reports. The Jai clan had slowed their aggression, giving the family some breathing room at last. It seemed that having Eithan back and working was having some effect after all.

He was still working on the reports when he sensed the power of Blackflame blaze up. Cassias actually shouted and drew his sword, primed for battle, before remembering that the enemy was outside.

He manipulated the window, focusing on the Striker Trial—on Orthos. The turtle was going wild, spraying Blackflame madra in all directions, tearing up dirt and stone alike. He would exhaust himself in a few minutes, but if the contract wasn’t enough to restrain him, Cassias needed to call Eithan.

When he saw a figure in dark blue robes creeping closer to Orthos, Cassias first thought the window was malfunctioning. Lindon snuck up right behind the turtle, snatched his pack away—it had miraculously avoided obliteration—and dashed back toward the Enforcer Trial.

Orthos must have sensed his presence, but somehow, the turtle didn’t kill him.

Cassias let out a slow, heavy breath and returned to his table. Snatching up a fresh sheet of paper, he began a report to Eithan.

***

Lindon and Yerin didn’t attempt the Striker Trial again for a few days, instead hiding from Orthos. The turtle wandered back into the tunnels soon after venting his anger in the Trial course, but he didn’t go far. Lindon could feel him prowling in the nearby tunnels, like a predator waiting to strike.

He’d grabbed the Sylvan Riverseed and tried to use her to heal Orthos, but the turtle had tried to attack him on sight. So he’d stayed away, resolving to try again the next time Orthos regained his sanity.

Though Lindon stayed in his cave for three days, he didn’t waste the time. Instead, he tried out an idea.

He didn’t have the skill to keep Blackflame madra under control for as long as Orthos had. That was the result of years of practice, and Lindon wanted results now.

But it wasn’t as though he needed to pierce the clouds with his Striker technique. He just needed to hit some targets through an aura shield. So he asked himself: what was the minimum he needed to complete the dragon’s breath?

Lindon explained the process to Yerin as they finally snuck out of their caves and headed back to the Striker Trial. His pack was mostly empty this time, half-filled with a few necessities.

“I only needed something to hold the madra together for a few seconds,” he said as they stepped through the arch to the Striker Trial. “Once the madra is dense enough, it’s easier to control, and the dragon’s breath will go as far as I want it. So I came up with these shells: they’re made of pure madra, so they hold the Blackflame power in place just long enough before they melt away.”

The gray wall of aura boiled up, and Yerin scratched at her neck. “Cheers and celebration for you, but it doesn’t sound like you learned the Striker technique.”

“No, I did! I did, I’m just using some…props.”

She eyed him over one shoulder as she pulled her sword free. “You try out a technique for the first time in battle, and you’ll be walking away with your guts in your hand.”

Lindon reached into his bag, pulling out half a dozen blue-white globes the size of his hand. He set them on the ground as though they were made of glass; the slightest impact would reduce them to dust. Pure madra was not an effective weapon, even Forged.

“I’ve practiced,” Lindon said, though it had only been a few days. “Keep the spears away, and I can destroy the targets.”

“You might recall I don’t smile especially bright on cheating,” Yerin reminded him. “Don’t want you to take the wrong lesson.”

“I’m happy to practice the Striker technique when we get out of here. Once I get those scales, and you get your pill.”

She nodded to him. “We have a bargain.”

He stood, cupping an empty shell of pure madra in his hands, and they both faced the wall of aura. Three black blobs floated behind the hazy barrier, though they had been quiet so far.

The Striker Trial didn’t seem to respond to small movements, or the spears would never stop coming. Only large, quick motions attracted the course’s attention. Yerin stood perfectly still, Goldsign poised over one shoulder and white blade held off to one side.

Lindon clutched the pure madra shell in his hands and concentrated, sending a ball of Blackflame into the center. A dark stain showed through the semi-transparent madra, growing larger as he poured more Blackflame inside.

Always keep it spinning. Pack more inside. Keep it spinning…

His control slipped once, but instead of exploding, the half-formed technique ate through the inner layer of the shell like it was made of ice. The barrier was thinner now, but he continued pouring Blackflame inside.

After a few seconds, it melted through the outer bubble of madra, and Lindon was holding a rolling ball of Blackflame madra suspended between his palms. It was stable now, and much easier to keep under control; only while it was forming did it take concentration to stop an explosion.

“You close to done?” Yerin asked him, barely moving her lips. No matter how loudly they spoke, it didn’t seem to matter to the Striker Trial, but she had decided to stay cautious.

“Now,” Lindon said, and she stepped left. A spear shot out at her, and she slapped it aside, but another streaked through the air.

Lindon held the ball of black fire between his palms, raised it until it was level with one of the targets, and pushed.

A bar of Blackflame, thick as his arm, tore through the air. It streamed through the gray wall of aura, passing through the center target and blasting it apart like a wisp of cloud.

The other two targets both sent out Forged spears, and Yerin knocked them away, but more came. It appeared they were speeding up.

Lindon clenched his jaw as he watched the dissolving target. If it re-formed from this…

A gong echoed through the canyon. Maybe the same gong that had announced failure in the Enforcer Trial. And this time, the target didn’t re-form.

The spears were coming so fast now that Yerin’s motions were a blur. “Two…left…to go…” She forced out, in between blasting Forged weapons apart.

Lindon snatched up the next hollow ball of pure madra.

***

When the third gong sounded, Cassias stepped away from his paperwork. It had only taken them ten days for the Striker Trial, though he hadn’t watched their final, successful attempt; Orthos must have given Lindon some pointers.

Cassias cycled his madra, touched his spirit to the silver aura around his sword, and readied himself. The Ruler Trial was his true test; he would pour everything he had into this one. They would either give up, or he would be forced to admit that Eithan had been right about them.

When he moved to the panel, he left behind the two reports that had arrived today. Both regarded the city’s Underlords:

The first message warned him that Jai Daishou had deviated from his schedule today. It seemed that he was going to take care of Jai Long’s rebellion personally. That was a relief to Cassias, though Eithan might take it differently; if the Jai Underlord was acting, then Jai Long wouldn’t survive to fight Lindon.

The second message said that Eithan had returned to the city. He’d left again only a week or so ago, and Cassias hadn’t expected him back for weeks, so Eithan must have received his report about Orthos. Other than the Underlord, there was no one in the Arelius family who could soothe Orthos without killing him.

Both letters contained valuable information, but nothing alarming. If Jai Daishou meeting with Jai Long was cause for alarm, Eithan would know and deal with it. Cassias could focus on his task.

In situations like this, at least, Eithan was reliable.

***

For months, Jai Long and the Sandvipers had waged a guerilla war against the Jai clan. That mostly meant ambushing them as they tried to sabotage the Arelius family, which was still enough to make Jai Long laugh.

Every time the Jai clan tried to capture another Arelius warehouse, Jai Long was there, gathering food for his spear. Every time they moved against Arelius street crews under cover of night, Jai Long spilled their blood in the streets. And servants bearing the black crescent moon were always right there to scrub it clean.

He was doing a better job of protecting the Arelius family than their Underlord was.

More than once, he’d wondered about the legendary powers of the Arelius bloodline. If they really could sense a speck of dust on a single tile at the top of a hundred-foot roof, as the stories claimed, then Eithan had to know what Jai Long was doing in the city. He could have stopped Jai Long at any time, removing a steadily growing threat to his own adopted disciple.

But he’d been the one to promise that disciple a duel in the first place. Jai Long was glad he didn’t work for the Arelius; that family must treat its disciples lives as tinder for the fire.

Thanks to Jai Long and Gokren, the Jai clan had been forced to lighten its grip on its enemies. Jai Lowgolds had a curfew now, and the clan had distributed valuable communication constructs to carry word of any suspicious sightings. Most of the clan had retreated to the very peak of Shiryu Mountain, living as close to their Underlord as possible, and a Highgold had been assigned to every house.

Not that it would do them any good. Jai Long had broken through to Truegold weeks ago.

At this point, draining Lowgolds of their Remnants did virtually nothing but replenish his core. Only Highgolds or better would help him advance, and Truegolds were the best.

Which was why he was here, crouching on the roof of one of the Jai clan’s lesser palaces, waiting for the first Truegold patrol of the night. The sun was dropping behind the mountain, casting long shadows over Serpent’s Grave, so it would be harder to see now than in the middle of the night.

Ordinarily, the streets outside the Jai clan homes would be packed at sunset, but the curfew required everyone except designated clan guards to be inside a safehouse before dark. None of the palaces in this district were secure, so they would be empty. Defended only by a Truegold at the beginning of a long patrol.

He gripped the case for the Ancestor’s Spear. There would only be one opponent this time, so no need to capture a Remnant—he could drain the elder dry right there on the street. No witnesses.

Gokren and two Sandviper Highgolds waited nearby, ready to provide backup if Jai Long encountered any difficulty. He was powerful enough now to rank in the top twenty or thirty of the Jai clan, but a true elder had been practicing the sacred arts since long before Jai Long was born. Who knew what crafty tricks they might have prepared.

As Jai Long slowly cycled, keeping his spirit calm, he felt it: the approaching force of a Truegold soul.

He hadn’t needed to scan the target directly to confirm that it was a Truegold, because they weren’t bothering to hide their power. There was a slightly muffled feel to it, as though they’d tried to veil themselves but had given up halfway. Maybe it wasn’t intentional; nerves could interfere with cycling. Perhaps they feared the attacker in the shadows.

If that was true, they would try to flee and sound the alarm rather than doing battle. Jai Long would have to strike so hard that they never had the chance to shout.

A white-clad figure with pale hair strode by beneath him, hands clasped behind the back. Through the shadows, Jai Long couldn’t make out if it was a man or a woman, but the force of a Truegold radiated from them.

Jai Long leaped off the building, Ancestor’s Spear shining in his grip. Stellar Spear madra ran through his muscles and bones, Enforcing him for the landing, bracing his body for the strike.

The Flowing Starlight technique settled in as he fell, until the wind seemed to whip past for long breaths of time. The white-haired head tilted, and Jai Long prepared himself for impact.

Then dark eyes swiveled up to meet him, showing no surprise.

An invisible fist gripped Jai Long’s heart and squeezed.

Jai Daishou, Underlord of the Jai clan, took a single step to the side and let his rebellious descendant crash to the ground.

Less than half a year had passed since Jai Long arrived in Serpent’s Grave; he’d expected to have months more before Jai Daishou personally acted. By then, he would have had more leverage.

He’d underestimated the Underlord’s insight, or overestimated his pride. Either way, the bill had come due long before Jai Long was prepared to pay.

Just like that, his revenge was over.

The impact of landing shocked Jai Long’s entire body, rattling his bones, and the bricks of the street cracked beneath him. The pure white shaft of his spear was driven two feet into the ground, and he’d landed in a crouch.

But slamming into the earth was nothing compared to the force of seeing Jai Daishou here, staring at him with the icy strength born from a hundred years of absolute rule.

A corrosive Truegold aura moved closer: Sandviper Gokren. He would have heard the crash, sensed the flare of Jai Long’s madra, and known that the trap was triggered. He’d never seen the Jai Underlord before; he would assume that Jai Daishou was just a Jai elder who had gotten the better of Jai Long.

He would try to help.

Jai Long’s stomach twisted, but he forced himself to meet the Underlord’s eyes. “This humble junior greets the Patriarch,” he said, his voice firm. He might have been about to die, but at least he didn’t have to show fear.

Jai Daishou turned to regard him head-on, his wrinkled face a mask, and Jai Long could no longer suppress his body's trembling. The old man's gaze was placid, like a frozen lake, but Jai Long shook as though he stared down a hungry dragon.

“You have killed sacred artists of your own clan,” the Patriarch said. “For quite some time now.” His tone remained neutral.

“Let the punishment fall on me alone,” Jai Long said, through clenched teeth and a burning throat. The words tasted bitter; he longed to spit defiance and die trying to shove his spear into the Patriarch's heart.

But if the Underlord had known about Jai Long’s activities, it was best to assume he knew everything. Including Jai Chen’s presence in the city.

If the Underlord grew too irritated, he could wipe her out with a motion of his hand.

There was nothing Jai Long could do to prevent his own execution, but if he had to bow and scrape with his last breath to save his sister, he would shame himself a thousand times over.

Jai Daishou nodded. “Humility is a virtue, when you face a stronger force. I am pleased to know you've learned to swallow your pride.” One slow, shuffling step at a time, he made his way over to Jai Long. The pressure built with every step, until he stood only a foot away. It was like being within arm's reach of an earthquake.

The Patriarch extended one hand and waited.

Jai Long knew what he wanted, so he forced his pride to bend even further. As though it weighed a thousand pounds, he slowly extracted the Ancestor's Spear from the earth and held it out, presenting it with both hands.

The Underlord lifted it with a more pleasant expression than Jai Long had ever seen on his aged face. He held it in one hand and ran the other over the weapon, feeling the script. The spearhead looped in one slow arc, tracing a line of white in the air, as Jai Daishou closed his eyes and savored the sensation.

“I have your sister already,” Jai Daishou said, eyes still closed, and Jai Long’s heart crumbled to ash and blew away. “My men picked her up hours ago. I had intended to use her life to stop you from throwing your life away in a suicidal charge, but you have at least a spark of wisdom.”

He had known it was a mistake to take her out of the Desolate Wilds. He had known it, but where could he have left her? Where could an Underlord not reach?

Jai Long prostrated himself, scraping his cloth mask against the sandy bricks. “She knew nothing of my actions. Please.”

“You have cost me twenty-three Lowgolds, eight Highgolds, and three Truegolds. So far. More importantly, you forced me to stop my actions against Eithan Arelius, which has given a servant family the opportunity to surpass our rank and join the great clans of the Empire.”

Madra flared like the rising sun, and Jai Long jerked his head from the tiles in time to see Jai Daishou disappear in a flash of white.

An instant later, he was back, holding Gokren from the back of a fur-lined collar. The Sandviper’s gray hair was mussed, and his left leg looked broken. He tried to choke out a word, but the Jai Underlord released him, and he collapsed in a heap on the ground.

“You will repay me everything I have lost,” the Underlord said, and Jai Long knew neither he nor Gokren were escaping with their lives. He owed the Jai clan three Truegolds, and here were two, ripe to be plucked.

But Jai Chen still had a chance to survive.

Jai Long lowered himself to beg again, but the Patriarch held up the Ancestor’s Spear like a scepter. He regarded the weapon, lips pursed as though he’d bit into a lemon. “Regrettably, I do not have much time remaining. Five years at most, they tell me. And in the entire clan, I have found no one else who can replace me in that short span of time.”

Jai Long's breath came faster. He'd known the Patriarch was reaching the end of his lifespan, but if he said five years, that meant it was more likely two or three. The old man had always been one to exaggerate facts for his benefit.

“Even with the spear?” Jai Long asked politely. For his sister’s sake, he resisted the urge to laugh in the Underlord's face. There were hundreds of thousands of loyal Jai clan members, and he couldn't find one among them who measured up to Jai Long.

He hoped the regret burned.

“The spear is a wonderful tool, but a tool is all it is. Advancing to Underlord requires an element of insight, of inspiration, that no weapon can provide. Increasing and purifying your madra will take you to the limits of Gold, but no further.”

The old man spun the spear at minimum speed, agonizingly slow, but every motion fluid and perfect. Centuries of training engraved their habits deeply.

Neither Gokren nor Jai Long made a single sound between them. Every second he wasted was another breath for them to live.

“If any of my elders could replace me as Underlord, they would have already,” Jai Daishou said as he danced with his spear. “The Ancestor’s Spear will not allow them to bridge that gap. I once had many possible successors, and one by one, they have failed me. So I come back to you…with my help, you could be Underlord in another year.”

A tiny hope joined anger, despair, and humiliation in the war inside Jai Long's heart.

“You will only guard the clan in my absence, of course, you will not succeed it. You are a stopgap measure, a deterrent to keep the jackals at bay until a true heir can be raised from the Path of the Stellar Spear. Swear your soul to my control, utterly and completely, and you are a tool that can be used.”

He came to a stop, swung the spear up to rest on his shoulder, and looked down on Jai Long. Waiting.

“My sister,” Jai Long grated out.

“As the only sibling of our clan guardian, of course she will have access to the very best treatment the Jai can produce.”

Jai Long inclined his head. “On my soul and my power,” Jai Long said, “I swear to take no action against the Jai Patriarch or the Jai clan, to follow the orders of the Jai Patriarch absolutely, and to act always in the best interests of the Jai clan.”

His soul tightened, restricted by his words, but a true oath always had two sides.

Jai Daishou spoke immediately. “In return, I swear on my soul and on my power to protect Jai Long and Jai Chen as my own children, so long as their loyalty remains true.”

This was a flimsy shield, but a shield nonetheless. Far more of a protection than he and Jai Chen had ever had on their own in the wilderness.

All his madra tensed, as though a knot had been tied around his soul, but then the sensation eased. Jai Long let out a breath.

Though a voice in his head cursed him as a coward, he shook with relief. His concern for his sister had drowned out everything else, but he hadn’t wanted to die. At least living as a Jai clan dog would lead to a cure for Jai Chen.

Jai Daishou tucked the Ancestor’s Spear under one arm. “You’ve gotten enough use out of this. It won’t raise any Underlords, but I can always use more Truegolds.” He glanced down at Sandviper Gokren as though regarding something he’d tracked in on the tip of his shoe. “Now then. That was sensitive information you just witnessed.”

A cloud darkened Jai Long’s relief. He had been so focused on the discussion that it hadn’t occurred to him to think about their audience.

The Patriarch crooked his finger, and Jai Long staggered to his side, pulled up by a compulsion so strong it was almost physical. “Underlords may be blessed by the heavens, but we are far from saints. When it becomes necessary, we must dirty our hands.”

The old man clasped his hands behind his back and turned toward the light disappearing over the peak where the sun had died. He said nothing else.

Jai Long gathered his madra and looked down at Gokren. The Sandviper’s skin had paled, and there was fear in his eyes.

Fear and resentment. He had never seen his son avenged.

“Let him swear loyalty,” Jai Long said. It was a stretch of his luck, and Jai Daishou might strike him down for sheer impudence, but he had to try. It was the least he could do for the man who had risked the existence of his sect to follow him here.

The Underlord half-turned and showed Jai Long a cold smile. “Exercise your own judgment and do as you wish. But I will not be burdened by the weight of extra oaths.”

Jai Daishou turned his back again, long metal strands of hair swinging behind him. “But hurry,” he said. “I have a task for you.”

Jai Long spoke before the Patriarch could change his mind. “Sandviper Gokren, I swear on my soul and on my power that I will have you executed…if you repeat a word of anything that happened here today, or betray us to our enemies.”

Gokren brightened, straightening his back. “On my soul and my power, I swear not to divulge a word of your conversation with the Jai Patriarch, nor to provide any information or assistance to your enemies. I offer my life as forfeit.”

The oath tightened, and Jai Long bowed to the Jai Underlord’s back. His role now was to wait for instructions.

“Eithan Arelius’ disciples are challenging the Blackflame Trials,” Jai Daishou said.

Since the fall of the Blackflame family, their Trials had been used to train students from many Paths. Those with the proper access keys could activate the Trials even without Blackflame madra, and the course would challenge any Lowgold, not just one on the Path of Black Flame.

The Naru clan only permitted a handful of disciples to use the Blackflame Trials each year, but the Arelius family kept the course defended and maintained. It made sense that they would have access, though using the Trials without permission sounded unwise.

Most Underlords would never defy the imperial family, but Eithan Arelius…

“The Arelius Patriarch acts on his own whims,” Jai Long said. “Unless…is one of his disciples a descendant of the Blackflames?”

If so, that was truly chilling. A new sacred artist on the Path of Black Flame would be a scandal to shake the Empire.

Jai Daishou turned back and regarded his descendant with scorn. “Certainly not. The only Blackflame they have is that insane turtle, and he’s too old to form a contract. But the truth is bad enough. If Eithan Arelius thinks it is worthwhile to risk Naru displeasure by opening the Blackflame Trials, then he must believe his student has a chance against you.”

Jai Long tried to fit that information into any form that made sense, but failed. Wei Shi Lindon was an Iron. Even if they fed him scales instead of food and elixirs instead of water, they could at best advance him to Jade. If the heavens themselves descended on his behalf, perhaps he could make Lowgold. Jai Long wouldn’t retreat from a duel with ten Lindons.

“I will not risk a future Underlord in a duel that the opponent has any chance of winning,” Jai Daishou said calmly. “That would be an absurd gamble with nothing to gain: you earn us no respect if you win, and endless shame if you lose.” Gokren’s face twisted in rage, but he bottled it up before he got himself killed.

“Patriarch, I am far more than—” Jai Long began, but the Underlord cut him off with a smug smile.

“I have another plan. Recruiting you was my final step, and now we can begin.” He turned to walk away, gesturing for Jai Long to join him.

Confused, Jai Long walked after him, Gokren trailing after.

The Jai clan built their homes in this position on Shiryu Mountain for the view. A curving wall of stone a hundred feet high blocked the wind and sand from behind them, while Serpent’s Grave stretched out before them, far below. From this high up, you could get a sense of the majesty the dragons had left behind, their skeletons stretching from one end of the city to another. A single skull made up an entire residential district, and looked as big as Jai Long’s hand, even from this distance.

Jai Daishou walked out past the houses, to the edge of the cliff, looking down at the city. The sun had long set behind the mountain, casting darkness over Serpent’s Grave. Cold wind tore at Jai Daishou’s robe and blew between the gaps of Jai Long’s mask.

“It is difficult to deal with an Arelius Underlord,” the Patriarch said. “They see all your hidden weapons, hear all your plans. You can’t make any preparations. You can’t say a word. Only when the Underlord leaves for months at a time, forcing the one other blood member of the Arelius to go after him…then you can make your plans.” He held up a finger.

“But you can’t strike. He has left the city defended in his absence, arranged for countermeasures. Your preparations lie dormant for weeks and months, as you wait until all the pieces to fall naturally into place.”

The full scope of Jai Daishou’s words hit Jai Long like a falling star. The Jai Underlord had collected his family together in safe houses. Not just to protect them from Jai Long, but to gather his fighting power in a way that the Arelius family wouldn’t find suspicious. With the clan’s forces marshaled, there was only one remaining variable: the enemy who had struck at them over the last several months.

Jai Long shivered. He’d been trying to cut off a spider’s legs, only to find himself caught in a web. If he hadn’t surrendered instantly tonight, Jai Daishou would have torn out his heart. The plan was already in motion, with no room for delay.

The Underlord raised his white spear into the sky. “And then, having never spoken a word to alert the watchers…you strike.”

A bright light burst from his spear. It rose into the newborn stars and exploded, bathing Serpent’s Grave in white.

All over the city, Stellar Spear madra flared to life.