The world was a wash of dingy stormlight as the drifter clambered up the craggy bluff. A thick bank of clouds loomed in the east, roiling in from the Boundless Sea, black and bleak grey, streaked with shifting veins of purple and yellow and orange. Thunder roared out from the smear of darkness, a trumpet heralding the coming storm. Erratic gusts blew through the surrounding woods, ripe with the scents of salt and pine and lichen. The mounting summer breeze did nothing to cool the film of greasy sweat that dripped from his brow.

He couldn’t shake the impression of the Last Wind calling his name, beckoning him toward his final journey beyond the Morning Gate.

“Not yet,” he growled, as if speaking the words had the power to make it so. His voice was a hoarse whisper over the roar of rushing currents. He glanced downward, to where the waters of the Targuine and the Whitehead spewed over the cliffs and down into the frothy maelstrom called the Crush. “Not today.”

He willed himself onward, chasing away all thoughts of knotted aches and weary bones. Another bluff loomed above. He reached up, straining against the rush of hot pain through his shoulder. A chorus of scrapes and itching scabs all cursed the effort. He ignored them, flaring slivers of the Flame to steel himself against their protests. One hand closed around a gnarled root. He hoisted himself up, seeking handhold after handhold. It was a climb that should have posed little challenge; that he was making it at all was a miracle of the Nine. He scampered up onto the final rugged face, wheezing and coughing with the taste of blood on his tongue.

Four copper domes crowned the bluff, arranged in a rising, circular pattern, with each smaller than the last. Their surfaces glimmered even in the bleakness of the day, like oil spilled over water. There was no mark upon them, no scratch or dent or speck of clinging grime. Caer Un, the domes were called, though the locals referred to it merely as the Coppermound. He ran one hand along the closest dome, savouring the tingle on his palms and the growing warmth of the purplish stone bracelet he wore around his left wrist. It was a place of Old Magic—so very different from his own Flameborn talents.

The song of that magic filled his mind, at once intoxicating and terrifying. In one moment, the song drew him in like a gentle current; in the next, the sheer force of it threatened to swallow him like the waves of the Crush. It was a fickle magic and frustratingly indecisive; there was no denying its potency. This was a place of power, a place of importance. It was a place for things to happen. Perhaps it could supply one last miracle against the shadow he knew was coming for him.

He didn’t wait long.

The demon clambered up over the blasted ridge with massive, overgrown paws. It had shed the visage of the pale-skinned woman and came in the shape of a wolf. Dark and twisted, it stood taller than a crag hound. A thick bramble of coarse fur grew around its neck and shoulders like a mane of overgrown bog grass. Eyes as dark as onyx glistened beneath a gnarled brow. It bared its fangs, twisting its blackened lips in the cruel imitation of a humourless smile.

“This grows tired of the hunt, manling.” The thing he’d come to think of as the Faceless growled as it spoke. Its voice was stony and serpentine. “Give up the magic and death will be swift.”

Amethyst light flared brightly around the bracelet as the drifter slowly drew his sword from the scabbard on his back.

The creature cocked its head to one side. “Futile. This cannot be killed.”

“All life ends,” he said. “I just haven’t figured out how to end yours.”

“No human ever will.”

It surged forward with impossible speed. The drifter's sword lashed out, an arc of brilliant silver that drove the Faceless back a single, cautious step. Three times they'd fought already, and three times it had felt the cold sting of his brightsteel. It didn't seem keen on repeating the experience. He hoped that would offer him some sliver of an advantage. He was battered and bone weary from the weeks of running. The Faceless was big and strong and possessed an uncanny endurance. It only needed to wait him out. Eventually, he would grow too tired to fight. The moment is now.

He flared the Flame of his Soulblaze and threw himself into the attack, cutting hard with the edge of his blade. When the Faceless dodged, he sprang to his right, narrowly avoiding the black, slashing claws. He rolled, leaping to his feet with all the agility of a blighted stick. The loose dirt betrayed him. He stumbled, and the demon closed fast. He drove his elbow into the bridge of its snout and pivoted away, cutting blindly. Somehow, the tip of his blade found the demon's flank. It yipped and retreated just enough for the drifter to regain his footing.

“This is pointless, human,” the Faceless hissed. “You must know by now that you cannot defeat this.”

“Maybe not,” he conceded. “But so far, you haven't killed me, either.”

The Faceless' burning eyes flashed dangerously.

“So why don't you just walk away before I kill you again?”

It was an empty boast. He felt weak. Too damned weak. I’d have trouble fighting an unarmed beggar from the Birches. But life had taught him two valuable lessons. The first was that there was always a stronger enemy. Bigger. Crueller. The second was that where strength failed, guile could often prevail.

“Come on, demon.” He held up his wrist, brandishing the talisman on his wrist. “If you want it so badly, come and take it.”

“Very well, manling. The hunt ends now.”

It lunged forward again, closing the distance in two bounding strides. The drifter's attempt at defending himself was knocked away by one paw. Powerful jaws snapped mere inches from his side, so close that he could smell the foulness that clung to the Faceless like the stench of smoke.

He flared his Soulblaze, throwing up a sheet of amber fire. The demon shrugged off the flames like a hound coming in from the rain. Frustrated, the drifter slashed again and again. On the third attack, he overextended himself.

The Faceless was upon him with its claws of onyx and fangs of burning shadow. They tore at his side, rending through his coat of thin mail and shearing his flesh.

The drifter screamed in agony as he fell. He landed hard on his back, the sword tumbling from his hand. All the breath fled from his lungs. His vision greyed, and he saw something like the shadow of a wind passing over him. His skin ached with a sudden, terrible cold.

“So it ends,” growled the Faceless. It lunged for the kill.

The drifter's boot shot up, catching the demon just under the jaw. It lurched to an unexpected stop, sputtering bile and black blood as its throat crumpled under the force of its attack. Black-gloved hands shot forward, grasping at its bramble mane.

The drifter reached deep into the power of his Soulblaze. The bracelet flared to life with a wash of violet light that contrasted sharply with the muddy browns and greens of the Faceless' coat.

Waves of borrowed strength surged through his body, momentarily chasing away the weariness. He dug one heel into the earth, pushed up and turned. His hips twisted. His arms strained with cords of sinew and muscle. Then the Faceless was off the ground, yipping and growling over his head. He released his grip, and the creature hurtled through the air—directly toward the domes of Caer Un.

It struck with a sound like a mountain breaking.

The moment the Faceless hit those coppery walls, they flared to life. Something like a storm of sand and lightning exploded from the gleaming surface, tearing through the demon and holding it in place. The air cracked and snapped. The Faceless thrashed and howled as its coat smoked and its flesh turned to a blackened husk. The stench of ash and scorched fur assaulted the drifter's nose, causing him to retreat a step.

A sudden heat at his wrist caused him to look down. The bracelet glowed brighter than he’d ever seen it. Its light seemed to pulse in time with the magic of the domes—so much that he felt the flow of its power in his own veins. He couldn’t understand what was happening. He’d intended to throw the demon over the cliff and into the Crush. Striking Caer Un had been a mistake, though not entirely unwelcome. Watching the cursed thing writhe and suffer brought a certain glee to his heart.

“Justice,” he muttered, thinking back over the weeks of fighting and fleeing—of aching and hurting and bleeding. “Die, demon. Die!”

All at once, the domes went quiet. The Faceless tumbled to the earth, blackened and broken. It lay motionless, and the drifter dared to hope.

Then it raised its head and turned slowly toward him. One eye was little more than a hollow void, seeping blackish ichor. The other was strangely whole and entirely too alive as it regarded him.

The Faceless hissed. “This will have the magic.”

The drifter gritted his jaw and clenched his fists, stepping slowly toward his fallen sword, expecting the demon to leap to its feet and renew the attack. When its head fell to the side, he allowed himself to relax for the span of a few heartbeats—just long enough for the agony of his wounds to set the world to spinning around him. He flared his Soulblaze and summoned a wall against the pain, then bent to retrieve his weapon. Its weight was sweet and familiar in his hand. He strode forward, approaching the demon with grim resolve. It glowered at him with its single eye.

The drifter spat, raised his weapon and drove it deep into the exposed throat. He was rewarded with a strangled gurgle. The lupine head rolled to one side. Its mouth sagged opened and its tongue spilled over its teeth like some swollen, greyish slug.

“Dead again,” muttered the man. “Try staying that way.”

He glowered at the corpse, then turned his attention toward the line of spruce and pine that stood some two dozen yards from the edges of Caer Un. He staggered toward the tree line, wiping his weapon clean and sheathing it as he went. The fallen branch he bent to pick up was damp and showing the first signs of rot, but it would suffice.

Returning to the demon, he set the butt of the branch against its flank and pushed. The body scraped along the ground, leaving a trail of oily filth beneath his boots. It offered no resistance as it reached the edge of the cliff and toppled over with grim silence. The drifter watched it fall, twisting and turning. It broke against one of the jutting stone teeth of the Crush before vanishing beneath the foam. He thought he saw the body surface once, a greyish blemish against the spray of white. Then it was gone.

But not for good. It seemed impossible to think that anything could survive such a fate, but the demon had already shown him the value of the impossible. He’d be a fool to believe it truly dead.

He glanced across the chasm that held the Crush. Only a few short miles beyond stood the many-spired city of Stormholt. Its tall, narrow towers were little more than spears of shadow against the mounting darkness of the approaching storm. There would be help in the city if he sought it. He considered it. There would be a warm bed, sumptuous food and a roaring hearth to draw from and replenish his Soulblaze. But there would also be questions. Too many damned questions.

Lord Branden Laynne would be no help to him today. Maybe another time. If he survived.

He weighed his situation. For now, he needed three things: a deft hand to sew him shut, an open flame to fortify his strength and a means of heading north. The last was the most important. Too many questions needed answering. Too many fears needed to be put down. There were people he loved who needed his protection. He was determined not to fail them.

His eyes fixed on the line of the Queensway as it cut its way down the edge of the bluffs from Stormholt. The road traced the edge of the rocky coast, forming a barrier between the rolling forest and the cold red sea. It curved its way south and west, where it bridged the gushing outpouring of the Crush. A small village surrounded the bridge. The drifter knew it as Therrin's Crossing.

Help waits on the fringes. He frowned at the thought. He had no desire to drag the woman into this. He'd already turned her life upside down once. But as he examined his options, he found them as fleeting as a morning mist. If rumours were true, there was one other man he could call upon—a veteran of the most recent Frost Wars—but if Tanner Hoff was in Therrin's Crossing, it'd be in a tavern. Or sleeping off the effects of a bottle or three. The drifter dared not venture into the village. His bleeding would attract too much attention, and men like him were seldom welcome visitors.

To her house, then. A quick rest while I make contact with Hoff. Then I’ll be on my way and not cause her any trouble.

With fresh resolve, he evoked a trickle of power from his Soulblaze—just enough to make the pain bearable—and began the long, difficult descent from the blasted cliffs.