A few drinks later, the women escorted the drunken men outside, their laughter rang hollow in the alley, sweet as honey, but quick to sour. The two men followed without thought, stumbling into the dark. A moment later, as they passed the carts, their escorts drew aside, and shadows moved. Three men stepped forward, silent and sure…the crack of fist to skull broke the hush, sharp and final. The drunks dropped like sacks of grain, twitching once before stilling on the cobbles.

  Therun stepped into view, tall and spare...his voice was low, smooth as oiled leather. “Bring the cage.”

  The darker-haired woman obeyed, slipping into the first cart and returning with a square cage no larger than a bread chest. It gleamed faintly, runes etched across its sides, blue crystals pulsing like trapped heartbeats. She set it down with care…Brann was carefully watching this ritual unfold from a safe distance. He had managed to climb one of the houses and was now looking down on Therun and his soldiers from a rooftop. The cage pulsed below, its glow painting their faces in shifting blue.

  The unconscious fools were dragged forward, limp arms stretched to rest their hands upon the cage’s top. At once the runes flared, and Therun began to chant. His words were guttural, drawn from some old tongue that Brann could not make out. The crystals blazed, and the men’s flesh shimmered, liquefying as though their bones had melted. A breath later they were gone, drawn silent into the cage, which pulsed brighter and then dimmed again.

  Therun’s smile was sharp. “Good, this was a productive night, let us hope for more… ”

  The voice cut across him like a blade: “I’ll be taking that box.”

  A hooded figure dropped from the roof, landing in the deep shadow between carts and wall. The alley seemed to shudder at the force of his arrival. He straightened slowly, the hood falling back enough to reveal Brann’s eyes, cold and unyielding. “I’m curious to learn what kind of magic steals men’s souls.”

  Steel hissed from sheaths…The women shifted, daggers flashing pale in the starlight. The men spread wide, circling like wolves, but Brann did not flinch. His hand closed on the hilt at his side, knuckles white.

  Therun’s scar twisted as he grinned. “Curiosity kills more than cats, stranger…Walk away, and you might keep your skin.”

  Brann stepped forward, every line of his body tight with coiled purpose, his gaze never leaving the cage: “Not going to happen.”

  Therun did not move…his scar caught the moonlight, his lips curling in something like amusement. “Test him, all of you…Irris, Velira, try to take him alive if you can, Revik, Veynar provide support.”

  The first woman, Irris, pulled her daggers, the small blue crystals in their hilts flickering. The other woman, Velira, unwound her silk scarf with a sinuous grace, two larger crystals glimmering at the end she held, while the four hooks at the other dragged sparks across stone. The smaller man, Revik, twirled his rune-blades, their glow a promise of pain and sleep. The second man, Veynar, was a muscular guy with a build resembling a stone wall. He hefted his shield, its three blue crystals pulsing faintly as his sickle gleamed at his side.

  The women struck first.

  Irris darted low, wires trailing like a spider’s web. Brann leapt back, boots crunching against cobble, but the line followed, sticky as sap. He slashed his hand down, cursed ice flooding through his arm. Frost sparked where his palm struck the wire, but it was not only ice that formed.

  Blue flowers bloomed along the strand, petals of frozen glass edged with light. They clung to the wire like creeping ivy, drinking from the magic woven into it. The crystals in Irris’s daggers dimmed as the flowers fed, weakening the thread until it sagged under its own weight. A heartbeat later it shattered, the blossoms breaking with it, falling to the stones in shards that melted to nothing.

  Irris eyes widened, lips curling in a hiss…Brann had not only broken her snare, his flowers had devoured its power.

  Velira’s scarf snapped out then, doubling in length mid-strike taking Brann by surprise, its hooks screeching across stone. She gave a low, sultry laugh as she caught a glimpse of Brann’s face beneath the hood: “Well, well,” she purred. “We have a handsome one this time.”

  The cloth stiffened in her hands, rushing to bind him, but Brann twisted free, cursed ice crawling across the silk in jagged flowers that bit and cracked the fabric. The threads tore, falling away in brittle strands, but even as they dropped, the scarf’s weave began to knit itself back together, slow but steady, fed by the glow of the crystals bound into it.

  Revik was there a heartbeat later, blades whistling. The first bite nicked Brann’s arm, and he felt it at once, his blood slowed, heart thudding heavy and vision swam for half a breath. Snarling, he drew deep, forcing cursed ice outward. The sluggishness melted into a shuddering chill, his blood snapping back into rhythm. That was an insidious enchantment woven into the steel. Brann knew it the moment the haze lifted. He would have to stay far from those edges, a few more cuts, and he might not wake from it at all. But keeping his distance would complicate everything, especially against a swordsman who pressed with such relentless precision.

  Roots burst from the ground at his call, tangling for Revik’s feet. The swordsman spun clear, but one root grazed his shin, slowing him for just long enough. Brann didn’t hesitate as he drove a kick into the man’s chest, sending him staggering back into the cart.

  The fight raged in close quarters, Irris looping wires, Velira striking wide arcs, Revik pressing with flurries and Veynar moving slow and steady, waiting, blocking Brann whenever he could. Brann twisted and dodged, his movements sharp and flowing. When the pressure grew too tight, he leapt, and roots answered his will, sprouting from the cobbles beneath his boots. They coiled upward like springing serpents, hurling him higher than any mortal jump, letting him vault above snapping wires and the lashing scarf.

  He landed hard, rolling through dust and frost, his hand skimming the stones to send ice-flowers blooming in his wake. Again he sprang, roots bursting up to launch him forward, carrying him over Revik’s rushing blades and Velira’s whipping silk.

  Momentum carried him straight into Irris’s path…her wires cut for him, daggers flashing, but Brann twisted past, cursed ice crackling along his arm. His palm struck her shoulder, frost and blue blossoms spreading in an instant. She stiffened, convulsed, than fell hard to the cobbles.

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  The crystals in her daggers dimmed further as her strength drained away. Dizzy, gasping, she tried to rise, but her limbs betrayed her, trembling uselessly beneath her.

  For the first time, Therun stirred, his eyes gleamed in the shadows, his voice cutting across the clash: “Veynar, open the ground, we must contain this fight.”

  The shield-bearer moved forward without a word. He flipped his sickle in his hand and crouched low, tapping the blade gently against the cobblestones. Once, twice, thrice, the blue crystal on its hilt flared. The stones beneath Brann shuddered, seams splitting as though pressed by an unseen weight and dust sifted upward in trembling streams.

  He tapped again, and the street gave way in a circle just wide enough to engulf Brann. The cobbles caved with a sudden crack, dropping him into the black throat of the tunnel below.

  Velira’s scarf lashed out in the same breath, hooks snapping into Brann’s cloak and dragging him further down into the dark. The others followed with practiced ease, slipping into the gap one by one.

  Therun lingered at the edge, gaze never leaving Brann as he fell. “Now,” he said softly, “let us see how the hunter fares when the walls close in.”

  The fall caught Brann by surprise. He struck hard against sloping earth before crashing to the floor of the tunnel, breath tearing from his chest. Dust filled his mouth, bitter and dry, and he rolled to his feet, vision swimming.

  The space below was wide, far wider than he expected. Walls arched high, and everywhere, embedded in stone like seeds in fruit, orange crystals glowed with a molten light. They pulsed faintly, alive, their glow reflecting in pools of water seeping through cracks in the stone.

  Brann froze for half a heartbeat…Orange crystals meant raw power, he remembered that from his training with Torvil. They had not been given “purpose” like the blue ones his foes used. A single mistake, a single careless strike, and the whole cavern might roar into fire. His gut twisted…tunnels under Avenwall? And this many crystals? If they flared wrong, the entire town could vanish in smoke and rubble. What is this? The thought clawed at his mind, but there was no time to dwell.

  A dagger, obscured by dust and debris, screamed past his cheek.

  Brann jerked aside on instinct, the blade grazing his ear. A sudden burn spread across his skin, numbing fast. The left side of his face slackened, lips twitching uselessly and his breath hitched…paralysis.

  The second dagger whistled after the first. He threw himself into a roll, dirt scattering under his palms, the blade sparking off stone where his head had been. He came up on one knee, straight into Veynar’s shadow.

  The shield-bearer loomed above, crystal-studded shield braced like a wall. Brann barely had time to raise his arm before the blow came down.

  It was like being struck by a mountain. The impact hammered through his ribs, stealing breath, driving him back across the cavern floor. Pain rippled through his body, bone-deep, and the crystals on the shield hummed with cold light as though savoring the strike.

  Brann staggered, his blood burning with fatigue. The tunnel was too tight, too narrow. Here there was no sky, no freedom for the leaps that had carried him above blades and silk. If it went on this way, he would be pinned, bound like quarry in a snare.

  It was time for a change of pace.

  The next time his boots struck the ground, roots surged upward, coiling around him as though to boost another jump. The fighters thought nothing of it. They had seen him use this trick before, but Brann’s hand brushed the bark, and cursed ice flowed into the wood. Blue flowers bloomed where his fingers touched, petals of frozen glass feeding on the life within the roots. Each blossom spread the chill deeper, until frost clung to the stone itself.

  Again and again he leapt, dodged and attacked, roots bursting to meet him, flowers blooming with every touch. The roots began to weave together, curling over and around, a cage of living wood forming in silence. His training had not been wasted, two powers now worked as one, nature and frost binding into a single will.

  The dome grew thicker with each heartbeat. The air grew sharp, the kind of cold that bit bone. Frost licked across steel, gushing from the blue blossoms. Breath misted with every exhale, turning heavier, clouding vision…the ground itself shuddered, as though the roots were dragging the warmth out of the stone.

  Revik pressed still, his rune-blades carving shallow cuts into Brann’s arms and shoulders. Each sting slowed his blood and weighted his eyelids. Even with cursed ice countering the lethargy, fatigue dug in deeper with every wound. His breaths came ragged now, his limbs heavy.

  The others, locked in the fury of their assault, saw only the man before them weakening, their eyes blazed with triumph and raw power…they did not see the trap closing. Therun, standing apart in the shadows, saw it plain, the dome of roots curling inward, the flowers feeding, the air trembling with power. He also saw the tremor in Brann’s stance, the faltering strength in his strikes, the pallor spreading across his face.

  The hunter was building a snare, yes, but he was also being consumed by it.

  The trap was nearly complete, frost crawled thick across the roots as the dome closed, blue blossoms pulsing with a hungry light. The air grew heavy, every breath a stab of winter in the lungs. The soldiers’ movements slowed, weighed down as though the cold itself had taken their strength.

  Revik staggered, his blades dragging as if lead hung from the steel. He swung once, sluggish, so slow that even Brann, half paralyzed, his limbs numb, slipped aside with ease. Irris’s wires lashed feebly, snapping short before they reached him. Velira’s scarf whipped out, but its hooks cut only air, her motions dulled and predictable.

  Their weapons fared no better. The blue crystals dulled, their glow leeched away by the frost flowers, power bleeding into Brann’s snare. The scarf stiffened and sagged. The daggers in Irris’s hands shook. Even the weight of Veynar’s shield seemed too much for him.

  It dawned on them only now…the true nature of Brann’s actions, the snare he had been weaving while they pressed the attack. They had walked into his cold embrace blind, and there was no way out. The roots and frost closed in like the jaws of a beast, leaving them but one grim choice: to muster what strength remained and make a final, desperate push.

  Irris struck first, and she was the first to fall. A breathless hiss escaped her lips before Brann’s fist sent her crashing down, crystals went dark in her daggers. Veynar’s knees buckled soon after under his own weight, the sickle dropping from his hand as silence swallowed him whole. Velira stumbled last, gasping, her scarf slipping limp across the stones as her body sagged to the cold.

  Only Revik remained, swaying on his feet, blades trembling in his hands. With a hoarse growl he tried one final strike, but his arm moved as though through water. Brann slipped past it and answered with a sharp punch, fist cracking against the man’s face. Bone broke with the sound of snapping wood, and Revik crumpled into the frost with blood pouring from his shattered nose.

  Brann swayed, his strength unraveling. The dome shuddered with him, its flowers flickering, roots trembling under the weight of the cursed ice, he had spent too much energy. He staggered forward a step, then another, before his legs gave way. He dropped to his knees, chest heaving, the cold pressing back into him with every breath. It was no easy task to control both powers without having them consume each other…he had overestimated his strength.

  Come on… not now. Not here. His jaw clenched, teeth chattering against numb lips. We’re not out of the woods yet. Move…move, damn you!

  A sudden sound cut through the hush like a knife.

  Clap. Clap. Clap…Slow, deliberate, mocking.

  Brann’s head jerked up, vision swimming. Therun stood beyond the fading dome, his scarred face calm, eyes gleaming with something too cold to be pride. His hands came together once more in a languid clap, echoing against stone.

  “Well done, stranger,” he said smoothly. “You put up a good fight. But I can’t allow you to finish my soldiers. They still have their uses.”

  He moved among them then, unhurried. One by one he lifted limp frozen hands and pressed them to the cage. Blue runes flared, and the bodies melted like liquid, drawn into the crystal lattice just as the drunken men had been. Irris, Veynar, Velira and Revik groaning through frozen teeth, each vanished into the cage’s glow.

  “They will have a headache tomorrow,” Therun said lightly, almost conversational. “But they will be fine once I let them out.”

  He turned at last, the cage hanging easily in one hand, its light spilling across the frost and roots that still quivered around Brann. His smile was thin, unreadable.

  “You, however…” His voice dropped, silk over steel. “What shall I do with you?”