As night set, the cool autumn day turned colder and colder, the clear sky seemingly sucking all the warmth from the air. Opening his swollen eye, Miles stared up at the beautiful stars painted across the dark sky, his mind a blur. Normally, he would gaze up at the sky in wonder, but tonight he could only look through one good eye, tears slowly dripping down his face. He hurt all over.

  After dragging him for a day and a half, the bandits finally stopped when they came across a burned farmhouse. Laughing in delight, they had picked through the remains, collecting pots, pans, and some clothes that hadn’t been completely burned. They even found a lone chicken, which they butchered in a small camp they set up a quarter mile from the farmhouse.

  Rolling over, Miles tried to move his bound arms and legs and grunted as shooting pain raced along his body, leaving him dizzy with agony. Pulling air in through his clenched teeth, he drew on the Aether around him, hoping to relieve some of his pain, but felt nothing as his body rejected his attempts. He was too exhausted. During the day, he had been forced to draw power repeatedly to prevent the ground from tearing his body apart while they dragged him. He’d lost consciousness more than once from the pain and exhaustion.

  I hope that family made it out alive, he thought, picturing the five of them hiding behind the overturned cart. He was fairly certain that he had drawn all the bandits toward him, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t return once they caught him. They should have left the moment it was clear. They’re safe, he told himself—yet the image of his own family’s heads hanging from the gate flashed into his mind. Fresh tears ran down his face.

  As he lay there, a scrawny bandit he didn’t recognize approached, a toothless grin plastered on his dirty face. “My lord, how are our accommodations?” he asked, crouching down. “We’re not used to treating nobility. I hope it’s up to your standards.” The man sneered, then kicked Miles in the stomach. Howling with laughter as he watched Miles curl in on himself, gasping for breath.

  “Don't kill him.” A gruff voice from the campfire ordered sharply, and the toothless bandit spat in irritation.

  “I know, I know!” he smirked, patting Miles’ cheek. “Just making sure he’s still breathing.” Spitting again, he joined the rest of the bandits at the fire.

  Taking a few minutes to regain his breath, Miles turned his face into the cold earth and dragged it back and forth, rubbing the place where the bandit had touched him until dirt and whatever plants were around him covered his cheek. After spending all his remaining strength, he stopped but could still feel the man’s hand.

  I won’t give up. I will kill them all, he constantly chanted to himself, wiping the dirt that had gotten on his lips on his shoulder.

  Turning, he squinted at the bandits around the bright fire. He would memorize all of them, carve their ugly faces into his mind. During the day, he’d been occupied with staying alive, but now, he had time.

  There were five of them. The toothless one who’d kicked him sat farthest from Miles, a half-burnt leg of chicken in his hands, oil dripping between his fingers and onto his lap. To his right was a large, hairy giant of a man, his tree trunk-like arms crossed in front of him as he stared into the fire. To the toothless man’s left lounged a man Miles would have called unremarkable—if not for the large scar on his face, which caused his lips to be drawn down in a perpetual frown. Beside him sat a short man with pock marks all over his body, his back turned to Miles. The last man was likely their leader.

  The leader was bald, his massive, dark beard the only hair on his face. The compact muscles hidden beneath his leather armor, which had wolf fur sewn along its hardened surface, were noticeable even in the firelight. Miles knew this man was dangerous; the way the rest of the bandits quieted down and glanced down at the floor whenever his attention was turned to them told him just how vicious the man was.

  Quietly watching, Miles noticed just how often the man absentmindedly touched his sword, a smile curving his lips each time he did. The man had the aura of someone who killed for pleasure, someone who took pride in his work.

  When I get free, I need to deal with him before I can get away, Miles thought, studying the other bandits. I can come back for the others later.

  Trying to think of a way to free himself, Miles looked for anything that would help—a sharp rock, a jagged stick, anything. His hands fumbling behind him as he silently felt along the ground. As the minutes crawled by, his determination slowly drained away, like water leaking from a bucket with a hole. No matter how hard he searched, there was nothing he could use to free himself. His bound hands found only handfuls of pine needles. Lying there on the cold ground, he began to cry soundlessly, his tied body quivering on the ground with every wheezing breath he took.

  After what felt like hours—but was most likely only minutes—Miles stopped crying, hunger and exhaustion getting the better of him. Staring up at the bright stars, he squeezed his eyes shut, forcing out the last of his tears. Counting silently to himself, he tried to lose himself to nature, the sounds of insects and the wind the only familiar thing in his current predicament.

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  As the familiar sounds of nature washed over him, his thoughts began to stir. For the first time since his capture, his mind was calm enough to ask the questions that he had not had time to ask. How had the walls of Collina been breached? How had his father and brothers been killed? Who were these bandits—and where were they taking him? Judging by their ragged clothes and filthy armor, they were not Lord Apra or Galra’s men. That left only one possibility: they had come from the wilderness of Silkbug. Somehow, they’d slipped past both Silkbug and his father’s scouts and attacked Collina when it was at its weakest. When the majority of Collina’s soldiers were stationed elsewhere.

  Desperately digging through his memories, he remembered what the bandits had said when they first captured him: King Borvak. His eyes snapped open. Where had he heard that name before?

  I think Ronan said something about a bandit naming himself king, he thought bitterly. I think it was in Silkbug, but I don’t remember. I should have listened.

  Feeling a pang of grief at the memory of his brother, he felt a strange comfort knowing Ronan would never have to experience seeing the rest of their family die.

  Suddenly, the sounds of nature were broken. A sickening crunch of something striking flesh was followed by startled yells. Turning his head back to where the bandits were eating, Miles saw the body of the pock-covered man slumped over, a spear embedded almost halfway down the shaft in his face. The remaining bandits froze, their distorted features almost demonic in the flickering flames.

  “WE ARE UNDER ATTACK!” the leader bellowed, his sword appearing in his hands as if it were always there.

  The three remaining bandits sprang to their feet, weapons drawn, strained eyes scanning the dark surroundings. Standing there, muscles tense and breath ragged, they shouted into the night, their voices wavering.

  “COME OUT NOW!”

  “WE KNOW YOU’RE OUT THERE!”

  As their feeble words faded into the shadows, three Arcane Knights exploded out of the darkness, like harbingers of the sun, each one glowing with intense Arcane Light. Blinded by the sudden piercing light, the bandits shouted, three of them stumbling back in shock, their arms raised to protect their eyes. Only the leader remained steady, having the experience to rotate Aether to his eyes—an old trick to see through the glare.

  “Arcane Knights!” he screamed, leaping behind one of his men, sword held at the ready.

  Eyes dazed by the sudden light, Miles heard the bandits begin to scream in panic, their bodies scrambling over one another as they tried to flee. Blinking the light from his eyes, he watched in horrid fascination as the three Arcane Knights tore through the bandits as if they were made from paper. The bandits’ attempts to defend themselves bought them less than a second.

  Weapons humming with power, the Knights moved them in precise, well-trained forms, all unnecessary movements gone. In the time it took Miles to comprehend what had happened fully, only the bandit leader remained alive. The others lay dead just a couple of steps from the fire, whose flames now seemed dim beside the light coming from the Knights.

  “Who are you? I am part of King Borvak’s army! By killing me, you’ll incur his wrath!” the bandit leader screamed. His shadow stretched long into the darkness, his trembling body facing the advancing Arcane Knights. As someone who relished violence and the feeling of power that came with it, he was sensitive to those stronger than him. “If you let me go. I won’t report what happened here to King Borvak!”

  Ignoring his words, the Arcane Knights began to circle him, carefully flanking the bandit as if they were hunting cornered prey.

  “I will kill him.”

  A man stepped out of the darkness, causing the Knights to halt immediately. His voice was devoid of emotion, yet his overbearing presence seemed to cause the very air to ripple with power. He was slightly taller than Miles’ father but shared the same eyes and jawline. Staring up at him, Miles instantly knew who he was.

  His uncle—Lord Resendel Tiore.

  “You were among those who attacked Collina,” Lord Resendel said, stepping towards the bandit leader. Each measured step caused the hearts of everyone to beat painfully.

  Crossing into the bandits’ striking distance, he raised his sword into the air, the blade reflecting the firelight.

  “I will give you one opportunity to defend yourself. Raise your sword.”

  Almost as if the words had broken the bandit from a nightmare, the bandit leader raised his sword into the air, shouting with a mixture of terror and defiance. He took a defensive stance. Aether flared from his arm as it slowly coated his sword, strengthening it.

  Resendel gave a single, slight nod. Gripping his sword tightly, he brought his weapon overhead, then down. For an instant, the air filled with the scent of rage and blinding light. Resendel’s sword met the bandit's blade and continued—shattering it before cleaving the man cleanly in half. The two pieces of his body fell heavily to the ground. He had cut through both man and sword as if they were made from cloth.

  “Don't move. You’re severely injured.”

  Miles blinked in surprise. Next to him stood a Knight, her unique spear blocking the starry sky. From where he lay, the spear looked as though someone had replaced its head with that of a sword. Or was it a sword with a spear’s shaft? he didn’t know.

  Kneeling, she began to cut him free, grimacing as the blood-soaked ropes unraveled from his body.

  “What's your name?” she asked, checking his wounds. Her short dark hair fell forward as she leaned in.

  “Miles Nazau, son of Falka Nazau, Lord of Collina,” Miles gasped. Each word was a struggle, but he had to let them know who he was.

  “Lord Resendel, the villager was right—Lord Miles is here!” she shouted, looking towards the other Knights.

  As his uncle approached, Miles felt hope and relief flooding into him. “Uncle,” he managed to whisper.

  “The heavens have not abandoned my brother's family,” Resendel quietly whispered, tightly clutching Miles’ hand. “Don’t worry—you are safe now.”

  Hearing his uncle's words, Miles finally let his exhaustion take over. He was so tired. Closing his eyes, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  Seeing Miles fall unconscious, Resendel turned to his knights. “Miles is in no shape to travel. We will make camp here. Drag all the bodies deep into the woods. I don’t want them to start smelling and attract unwanted animals. Sable, see if you can clean some of Miles’ wounds. I’ll boil some water and herbs.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  Standing up, he looked at the sky, “Brother, I’m sorry I was late, but I promise to take care of your last son.”