Thoughts of academy made her stomach churn.
She would have to face Niles, who had lost his father this night.
But it had to be done.
She sighed and stood up, looking both ways to ensure she was truly alone. The barest hints of sunlight were starting to show on the horizon.
As she walked, a new determination settled on her. She could do this.
Perhaps this life of thieving wasn’t for her. It had been a fun game for a time, and she had learned enough to fill a library of books, but it wasn’t reality.
People didn’t steal out of boredom. They did so out of necessity, and in this empire, where was the necessity? Everyone worked enough to eat. If they didn’t, the empire disposed of them.
She had been a fool, protected by Bayt and his unique position. He had created an illusion, a dream world for her to play in.
Reality was raw, though, and dangerous.
In just a while, she would be home, and she would wake up on time and pretend nothing was different. She would make her parents proud, and they wouldn’t be proud of the lie she had created around her life. They would be proud of her true achievements. She would never steal again, nor even think of breaking the law. From this night forward, she would be a loyal servant of the empire.
The sacrifice of the wolfblades wouldn’t be for nothing.
13
Brandt opened his eyes, the stabbing pain in his skull evidence enough that he still lived.
His gaze darted around, searching for clues. He lay on a bed, as did many others. Individuals wearing the white uniforms of healers moved from bed to bed. The atmosphere was quiet, an unspoken recognition of the nearness of the gate that separated the living from the dead.
He’d seen the gate himself, once. Years ago as an infantryman, before joining the ranks of the wolfblades. He had been stationed near the Falari border, involved in a small skirmish, one of the endless border conflicts the southern lands were involved in. Brandt had taken a spear through the side. The strike hadn’t hit any vital organs, but nearly a full day passed before he was discovered by his fellow soldiers. By then infection had set in and he was weak with fever.
He didn’t remember much from the following days, but he remembered the gate.
Less a gate, perhaps, and more an arch. Made of smooth stone, eroded until it was almost as smooth as glass. Yet somehow every stone fit perfectly, held together by an invisible mortar.
He had been walking toward that gate when a force had pulled him back.
And he had lived, and gone on to join the wolfblades.
Was it truth, a vision of his eventual destiny? The destiny that waited for all?
Or was it a figment of his mind, created out of the myths and legends of his people?
He considered himself fortunate to return once. He still had days where he wondered about the veracity of his vision. Unfortunately, the only way to discover the truth was to make a journey from which there was no return.
He had seen no gate this time. There had only been the pain of the stone blade through his chest and the sweet blackness that followed. Then now.
Brandt lifted his right hand, grimacing against the pain. He brought his hand into sight and flexed his fingers. They moved as expected. Gingerly, he touched his left chest, the slightest touch sending a flare of agony down his spine.
Alive, then, but not well.
One of the healers, a middle-aged woman, noticed his movement. She approached him, her eyes missing nothing as they examined him. “I’d tell you to be careful, but judging from the scars on your body, this isn’t your first time under a healer’s care.”
Her voice was rough, but concerned. Like a disapproving mother.
The edge of Brandt’s lips turned up in a smile. “I’ve seen one or two.”
“Closer to a dozen, would be my guess.”
“It’s easy to lose track.”
She made a sound that might have been a chuckle, or a grunt. Brandt liked her.
“How bad is it?”
“Not fatal. The stone pierced almost directly over your heart, but entered at a shallow angle. Your chest is a mess that the healers have been trying to fix, but some of it is just going to require time to heal. You can count yourself lucky.”
“Other survivors?”
“The city guard was luckier than they should have been. About twenty injured, but only four dead.”
Brandt didn’t want to ask the question, but he had to. He clenched his left fist, already suspecting the answer. “The other wolfblades?”
“You’re the only one we found alive.”
Her tone was direct but compassionate, the voice of one used to giving terrible news to worried families.
A chasm opened within him.
He had known, of course. Only a fool would hope. But he had hoped anyway.
He lay there in mute shock. The healer reached out and grabbed his right hand, gently moving it away from the wound he had been exploring a moment before. She squeezed it before she let go.
Understanding his needs better than him, she offered him a short bow and then moved away, giving him the space to breathe.
Brandt stared upwards, looking at nothing in particular.
Just two nights ago they had been drinking together.
He’d lost friends in combat before, but not since becoming a wolfblade. They were among the best. For over two years the five of them had spent almost every day from sunrise to sunset together. They fought as one.
And now only one remained.
Brandt lay there, unmoving, even as the healers came to check on him. In the back of his mind, he heard the soft songs of the torches scattered around the hall of healing. Fire still called to him, but he didn’t respond.
The world felt empty and cold. He had no desire to move through it, to be a part of it.
He slept, then woke, then slept again. Time meant nothing. Sometimes light shone through the windows of the hall, other times
