The sound of thundering hooves, just out of rhythm with the movement.

  The Wraithmares eat the ground in long, untroubled strides, heads low, ears pinned, breath that looks more like smoke than steam. From a distance, they might pass for ordinary black mounts, the sort bred for war or ceremony or the vanity of men who like to feel taller in the saddle. The sound sets them apart for those who understand.

  The air fills with the weight of a hundred horses, though only ten run, and the noise never quite fits the rhythm of their hooves. It makes men uneasy if they listen too closely.

  Vaeron has long gotten used to the eariness of it.

  He lets the false thunder trail behind them and keeps his eyes on the low line of hills ahead. Speed is nothing without direction, and he can feel his mark ahead.

  As the miles slide under him, he once again questions if they have found her. It was the best lead. If she isn’t there, at least they will have some food for their mounts.

  The sanctum was broken. The cradle empty. The High Priestess is dead, but more importantly, he does not have the Starfire.

  Below in the streets, his soldiers are already chasing the lost little priestess. It won’t be long until they have her. Each of them have been gifted by him personally.

  His men move through the lower wards in pairs. Their enhanced senses will allow them to follow her trail. He can feel their glee at the hunt, the frustrations as she slips just out of reach again and again.

  He feels the two who have her cornered. Then they are gone, dead or unconscious. As the connection breaks, he understands he has lost them.

  He does not waste anger on that realisation. Anger is a waste of time, he needs to widen the net. He turns back to the temple grounds instead of riding blind.

  The central court lies open to the sky, a wide circle of pale flagstones worn smooth by centuries of feet. A carved star shows through the soot and ash. The fires have been put out but the smoke still clings to everything. The dead and the almost dead are already being carried in by the soldiers he kept behind.

  Vaeron gives a single order. Bring them all. We have work to do.

  The dead are laid in a ring. Blood sinking into the stone. The living are bound and made to wait. Blood is life. Blood carries power. It is a good fuel for Soul Fire, if you know how to take it.

  Vaeron raises his arms.

  Heat shimmers over his skin, a thin haze radiating off of him. He speaks the old words. Thick and harsh. Words that sit heavy in the mouth and scrape the throat raw. The blood in the stones answers.

  It lifts into the air.

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  Sheets and threads rise and fall, draw together and pull apart. It moves according to his design. The pattern of the ritual refuses to stay flat. It rises, settles, builds ribs and rings that climb and sink until the shape finally takes hold.

  When it steadies, the prisoners are brought forward.

  Those taken alive from the temple are placed at fixed points along the design. Two to a spoke. One at each join. All facing inward. They are tied up, but the fear alone keeps them steady. Knees pressed to stone.

  Once they are all in place, the ritual starts. There is no escape for them now. Rope is no longer the reason they cannot move.

  Vaeron closes his fist in the air.

  One man lifts from the floor as if invisible hooks are holding him up. He hangs a pace above the flags, legs twitching. Vaeron meets his eyes and finds fear waiting there, bright and ready.

  Fear feeds fire.

  He draws the obsidian dagger from his belt. Veins of dull red run through the blade and throb like a slow pulse. He raises the dagger high as the magic within it is released into the spell.

  The first sacrifice is always the best. Blood begins to pour from them like their body can no longer hold it within. As the body falls to the ground, the fire answers.

  Green fire takes the corpse where it strikes and runs along the lines already written in blood. Moving slowly from point to point. When it reaches the first pair of prisoners it climbs them at once.

  Their mouths tip open as they scream towards the sky. No sound comes out. The fire moves on.

  Flesh blackens. Eyes flash white and are gone. Ash falls away as the fire takes what it needs.

  The flame crawls the diagram and mounts each body in turn. Faces fix in a scream that never finds a voice. When one point collapses to ash, the next takes light. Vaeron keeps the chant even. The old language commanding a magic most have never heard of and few would dare to wield.

  Call.

  Carry.

  Bind.

  Fly.

  Message.

  Find.

  When the pace begins to lag, he orders the soldiers to feed it. Another prisoner is thrown into the flames. The green flame quickly feeds on another sacrifice. Again. And again. Dozens. The soldiers do not look away. The Supplicants turn their heads slightly aside, listening for something beyond hearing. The court fills with the stink of hot iron and burned meat. The flagstones darken, slick under flame, then dry to a deeper stain.

  When the last throat is cut and the last body collapses to ash, the colour changes.

  Green dims and goes black.

  It moves like sludge as it gathers at the centre, low and oily, lapping at nothing. Vaeron does not stop speaking. He sets the final words with care and then brings his hands together.

  The black fire swells and breaks without smoke.

  A shape pushes through and shakes itself free.

  A crow.

  Then another.

  Then ten.

  Then a hundred.

  All black. Each with three eyes, the third set in the brow and never blinking. They smell of burnt salt and wet iron. They do not cry. They spill upward from the circle, tear into threads against the pale sky, and scatter in every direction.

  None of them look back.