Everything tastes of death.

The thought wraps around my neck like a noose, jerking me from the depths of sleep. I inhale sharply, and that familiar sensation lodges in my throat, clogs my lungs. Squeezing my eyes shut, I lean back, sucking in another breath in an attempt to calm the skitter of my heartbeat.

Bark. There's bark at my back, the gnarled shape of a tree trunk. Not the scratched stone of a cell. Not the shaded interior of a tent, either.

A shudder writhes through me, coiling into an ache that yawns deep in my chest. The scent of death isn't fading. It wraps around my torso in a weighted blanket, sticking to my skin in a cold sweat. My neck stings with the ghost of a blade at my throat. I clutch at my heart, half expecting to find a sword lodged there, stealing my life away.

No. It broke free. It shattered, a thousand shards, each marked in a deadly black.

"Monster."

My nails dig into my sides, failing to scrape at skin beneath through the thin leather that shapes my gloves. "No," I whisper, hardly hearing the word. "No. My name is Nathaniel." The statement isn't any less a lie than it has always been, but it's become something of a morning ritual, a firm plinth on which to root myself and draw the line between dreams and reality. Past and present.

It pains me to think that these nightmares are now a routine occurrence. It isn't always the same memory, yet Edita's dying gasp always lurks at the edge of my unconscious, seeking for the right moment to pounce. Edita, Tyler, Camdyn. Oswin. The names circle my head, each a knife to deepen the ache in my chest.

My flame can't harm others as it did then. Its killing touch is no longer active, not with the silver-lined gloves that enclose my hands, trapped in place by metal binds. I'm safe now. I grit my teeth, forcing the clinging grip of death to retreat.

Safe. Trapped. The two still intertwine, as different as my life has become.

With more effort than it should take, I wrench open my eyes. It's dark. The sky hadn't yet turned when I drifted off. Or perhaps it was just turning, the sun setting, the clouds lit in a haze of fiery amber. Sarielle doesn't like the idea that I've missed so many sunsets in my years spent in Polevis's castle cell. We watch every one we can, now, together.

Sarielle. Wakefulness sings like lightning into my veins, jolting me to my feet. Last I remember, she was sitting beside me, my head laid on her shoulder. She is absent now.

Spinning, I sweep the camp, the pale shapes of tents like ghosts drowned in darkness, searching for a spark of light amongst them. If she retired early, someone else should have taken her watch. But all is dark. The night is empty.

Until I hear the clash of blades.

Hand flying to the hilt of my dagger, I take off running, boots skidding over the muddy ground as I traverse the upward slope. Every step is unsteady enough to send me flying over, but somehow I manage to maintain my balance enough to clamber to the crest of the hill, ducking behind the rocks that spill from the mountainside towering above. The sounds of battle are in full swing now. Bracing myself, I peer through a crack in the rock.

There aren't many figures in the dip below. I pick out Sarielle immediately. It's clear she's been taken by surprise; her golden hair is loose, and her white tunic is covered by no armour. Her cutlass tangles with the twin blades of a darker shape, his navy form almost blending into the night.

Neyaibet. I draw back, breath caught in my throat.

Dalton is there too, dressed in matching white, along with another soldier I can't identify in the dark. Pushing through the claws of fear crawling over my skin, I steal another glance through the gap. There's at least three navy-clad soldiers. More could be hiding in the gloom. I press my back to the rock, vulnerability squirming in my stomach.

My dagger curls into my palm, some flimsy form of protection. My sword is laid in a tent somewhere in the midst of camp. I can't risk running to fetch it, and even if I did, what help would it bring? I've only been training with Sarielle for a short while in broken bursts, my need for rest overwhelming the desire to learn more often than not.

I'm still so weak. My chest constricts. Weak and totally reliant on them to defend me. I can only hide here and pray they succeed.

A white form speeds out from behind the tents, sword glinting in the moonlight. He passes close enough to make out as Harper, followed closely by Lark. My relief hardly battles free before it is crushed. They're engaged immediately by soldiers that seem to melt from the darkness, the faint blue hue of their outlines only visible as it contrasts with bright white.

More footsteps reverberate from the other direction. As I whirl, I catch sight of a darker shade of clothing, and thrust forward my dagger thoughtlessly, fear crashing through me in a tidal wave. It settles as the figure skids to a halt before me, palms held up in a placating gesture, blue eyes reflecting the stars' glow.

"Hey!" Fiesi hisses. "It's me!"

Even after weeks in the regiment's company, he still opts for slate grey, marked by no kingdom's crest. His loyalty, fragile as it might be, has shown itself in other ways. I lower the dagger, his presence touching the air with warm relief.

He shoves up into the rock on the other side of the gap, peering through with less caution than I applied. The edge of his cloak brushes my legs. He has a bow slung over his shoulder, I realise, which he now grabs for, a quiver in place of his usual strapped-on spear. I'm surprised he has any weapons on him at all in the middle of the night, yet this is hardly the time to ask. Shifting his stance, he nocks an arrow to the string, licking his lips as he draws it back.

Azure sparks flutter around his fingertips, tensed on the bowstring. Hesitance flashes across his features. With a tight sigh, he relaxes his grip. "Damn it."

"Too dark?" I guess, although deep down I know better. Fiesi fears failure to some extent, but what freezes him in place is the prospect of fatally wounding them. To kill a Cormé, those lacking in the same magic we were both born with, is against the natural order. To do so would plant a darkness in his flame, put him a step closer to my fate. My fingers curl into the rock.

He ducks back into his hiding place, bow held loosely at his side. "Something like that," he says. "I'm sure they can handle it themselves. I'd just rather Sarie didn't accuse me of being a dead weight again."

My shoulders droop. "You're less of a dead weight than I am."

"But she likes you. You get a free pass."

A smile touches my lips regardless of our situation. I dare to twist around and check the battle's progress. It's impossible to tell how many Neyaibet soldiers remain, but the white shapes are far more plentiful. They will win. There's no need to worry. Yet still my stomach tangles in knots, tightened by my tangible uselessness.

"Maybe if she at least sees me aiming..." Fiesi leans forward again with the bow half-heartedly readied. He toys with the string, the arrow drifting from its rest as he glances back at me. "It wouldn't do much good, anyway. I'm awful with--"

Abruptly, his words cut off, his eyes widening. He retracts, shrinking into his cloak behind the rock. I open my mouth to ask, but his gaze commands me to be silent, to remain still. I clutch my dagger.

Something drags over the rock, and then a dark shape appears in a flash of movement, vaulting over the gap and landing neatly in a crouch before us. He rises with slow confidence, flipping over the hilt of the sword in his hand. Silver stitching glints as it snakes down his middle.

"Well, well," he croons. "The very two boys I'm searching for."

His mop of blond hair reflects the moonbeams. There's a scar there, too, its pale sheen marking his cheek. He advances a step, gaze flitting between us with beaming delight. Like he's come across a sought-after treasure. My legs have started shaking already.

Another step. This time, Fiesi pushes off the rock to match it, his arm stretching across to block the soldier's path to me. He's spun the arrow, holding it awkwardly like an odd sort of spear. His fingers twitch on its shaft as if debating whether or not to summon flame.

He tilts his chin up to let their gazes meet. The man sniggers. "I thought you were taller."

"I thought you were less repulsive." Though I can't see his expression, the edge of a smirk leaks into Fiesi's voice. "Have you gotten even more ugly since we last met, Elyas?"

The soldier's lip curls back. He raises his sword, letting it graze the air before Fiesi's chest. "You've become quite the star, Finlay Hunter. I've never heard of a deserter so widely talked about."

It's slightly jarring hearing him referred to by his false name, the one he chose when living amongst a regiment of Neyaibet soldiers, even now. At first, I'd rather have called him Finlay above anything else, but with every day that passes it feels more and more like the illusion it truly was. Fiesi is real, flawed and fearful but real, and he stands in front of me now, acting to shield me from what has become our combined enemy.

"Deserter is a loose term," he tries to interject, but they waver along with his stance as the sword sweeps past his chin. The arrow twitches. I can sense the sparks beneath the surface, hissing and popping, mere moments away from bursting into bright blue flame.

Elyas concedes a tilt of his head. "Captain Wynn does prefer traitor. That's right," he adds, satisfaction coating his words as Fiesi tenses. "Your precious Fayre got a promotion."

"Precious," he echoes, an uncertain laugh splitting the word.

All trace of it fades as the blade slides in at his throat. "She's looking forward to seeing you," Elyas says, tilting its tip. Fiesi's palm opens, the arrow dropping harmlessly to the ground. It's hardly a display of surrender, but still it seems to please the soldier, his lips pulled into a sharp grin. "It's too bad she wants to kill you herself, or I'd do it right here and now."

Fiesi snorts. "You could try."

I've seen enough of his fear to sense the cracks it forms in his usual confidence. He can't keep this up forever. Still pressed into the rock, I toss a helpless glance through the gap. It's near impossible to catch anyone's attention in the dark. I should run, but my feet are frozen in place, false frost rimming my boots and gluing me to the grass. My fist clenches over my dagger. When did fear's grip begin to wrap so tight?

Even so, my twitch of movement snaps Elyas's gaze to me. Something calculating flickers through his eyes in a flash of silver. The sword withdraws in a swift sweep.

"I don't think she'll mind a little damage, though." He runs his tongue over his lips, as if contemplating the words, before ramming his blade into Fiesi's thigh.

He's barely had the chance to gasp, pain twisting his expression, before the blade roughly tears its way out again. Stumbling back, he collapses with a bitten cry. His jaw is clenched. I make the mistake of looking at him too long, my own powerless nature writhing in my stomach, so that when I glance back up I find my gaze met instantly by Elyas's cold stare.

Barely a step from me, he lifts his sword, dark blood dripping between my boots. "But you..." He flips the hilt without removing his eyes from mine. "The general doesn't want a scratch on you."

My dagger suddenly feels heavy in my hand, its blade leaden as it drags my arm downward. "She hasn't seemed to mind before," I say, somehow managing to summon my voice. It sounds strangled.

"She?" He chuckles. "I presume you haven't heard, then?"

Chills prickle over my arms. "What?"

His sword lowers as he steps forward, curling a hand over my wrist. Dulled familiarity cuts into my chest like a blunt blade, all the more rusted by my dream's recent surge of memory. Bile crawls up my throat.

"Just wait and see." The pleasure in his voice twines with the rattle of chains, clinking at his hip as he leans towards me. Blind panic sends a bolt of adrenaline coursing through me. I struggle against his grip, attempting to twist the dagger still trapped between my fingers to strike at something, anything. It's all too feeble. He holds strong.

He laughs. "Oh, those aren't for you. You're not that special anymore." In a fluid movement, he twists my wrist, eliciting a quiet hiss of pain. The dagger slips easily from my hand and into his. He casts it to the ground and kicks it aside, refusing to release my wrist even as I jerk back, the rock scraping my shoulders through my tunic. "And do stop struggling. It won't get you anywhere."

I give another hopeless tug, gritting my teeth. "Never."

He shrugs. "Then I suppose you'll just exhaust yourself." Before I can brace myself, he wrenches me forward, sending me tripping over my boots, a shove landing me on the ground. I wrestle onto my back, cursing my shaking hands.

The chains land with a thump on my stomach, their weight rolling through me in a fearful shiver. Elyas gives them a parting pat. "Keep hold of them, will you? Now--"

He doesn't have chance to turn before arms close around his chest, palms pressed into his ribs. Squirming, he slashes at the spot behind him with his sword, but the strike is sluggish, lacking in precision. Surprise battles with fury in his eyes. It all soon dulls, steadily glazing over as blue sparks flutter under his chin. Shock wins out as he glances down at them, but it's too late to do anything; his eyelids are drooping. The grip around his chest wraps tighter, and the soldier crumples, landing in a ragged heap in the grass. His limp hand doesn't leave his sword.

In his place stands Fiesi, panting, arms decorated with blue flickers as they drop to his sides. He clenches his fists, and they sink beneath his grey sleeves.

A nervous laugh laced with relief breaks from my dry throat. "You took your time."

He flashes me a glare as he kicks the chains to the ground, releasing the weight pinning me down. "Hey, it's slower to heal without Rigel." Extending a hand, he offers a softer smile. "You alright?"

I accept it and let him drag me to my feet. "Fine." There's no use in asking the return question. A quick glance at his thigh confirms that the wound has sealed, streaks of crimson lining the tear in his trouser leg. Besides, if he were still in pain, I'd already be hearing all about it.

As I scoop up my dagger, he inspects Elyas's unconscious form, picking up his discarded sword and rolling it over in his hand before tossing it at the rock. It impales the ground before it with a dull thud, hilt swaying a little. Fresh licks of flame condense into the azure shaft of a spear that slots better in his grip. He's opted not to hide the fire any longer.

Although he points it only downwards, the ache in my chest spikes as if he's thrust it between my ribs, blaze gnawing at my insides. Biting my tongue, I twist away in an effort to hide the burrowing pain, although I know he must have figured it out by now. It wakes every time I see his flame, this deep yearning for power I can no longer reach for. Attempting to distract myself, I focus on the soft leather of my dagger's hilt, the feel of it in my palm, although one glance at its blade drives a different thorn into my heart. My weakness renders it near useless. Even if I did muster the strength to sink it into another's flesh, the blood spilled does nothing to fill the void my flame left behind.

Shoving back my thoughts, I slide the dagger into my belt. There's no use dwelling on any of it. I'm yet to discover a way to prise the binds from my wrists. Until then, the emptiness remains.

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

And we're off! I love how this chapter divebombs straight into the angst. Best way to begin.

Seriously, guys. It feels like forever I've had this beginning sat in my docs, and I'm so happy to be sharing it now. It's gonna be a ride, and I'm glad to have you with me :D

I will attempt not to ramble at you so much this time around, but yeah. The kids are back and they're just as messed up as before. Let's go.

- Pup