Fassel Grenn, ruling steward of Darransh, was breathing like he'd just run up three flights of stairs while carrying a barrel of ale. Up and down, his chest surged, shoulders trembling, blood running from a gash on his ankle and another on his shoulder, soaking through his torn surcoat and pooling in his boot.

  Barek, son of Jorek, Orc Lord of the Jurha, watched him and felt heat bloom in his gut.

  This was satisfaction in its purest form.

  "Look at you," Barek said, the human tongue awkward in his mouth but serviceable enough.

  Fassel didn't respond. He just stood there, swaying slightly, his sword still raised in a guard position while his arms shook pitifully.

  Barek gestured to him with his axe, the massive weapon resting easily against his shoulder. "To think we used to run from men like you." He spat to the side. "Unbelievable"

  Behind him, seven hundred orcs stood in formation. Someone in the back ranks started it: a low, rhythmic chant that spread like fire through dry grass.

  "BA-REK. BA-REK. BA-REK."

  The sound grew, swelling until it echoed off the capital city's white stone walls. Fists pounded against shields. Axes struck the ground in time with the chant and Barek let it wash over him for a moment, savoring the sound of his people united behind him, then raised one hand and the chanting stopped immediately.

  Ahead of them, the capital city of Darransh, Enariel, loomed with its iron-reinforced gates and proud towers. People lined those walls now. Hundreds of them. Watching their steward bleed in the dirt outside their city.

  Three weeks. That's how long the siege had lasted before lord Fassel Grenn had walked out through those gates alone and proposed his duel. One man against one Orc. The victor takes the city. Only the leaders' blood draws.

  Barek had accepted immediately. Not because it was honorable, but because it gave him exactly what he wanted: the chance to make an example that would be remembered, in case the Sultan and the Buried King had not been enough.

  "You know what I remember?" Barek said, taking a single step forward. His boot crunched against the packed earth. He did not like speaking the language of humans, but he felt like emptying his chest and making himself clear this time. "I remember when I six year old. My people come here. To Darransh. After second exile." Another step. "We walk for weeks. Through snow and cold. We have nothing. No food, no shelter. Just... just us. Two thousand of us."

  The memory played out in his mind, the bitter cold that had frozen his fingers until he couldn't feel them, his mother carrying his baby brother who wouldn't stop crying, the way the snow had turned red when people started collapsing and never getting back up.

  "We come to your gate," Barek continued, his voice carrying across the field. "We not attack. We not threaten. We just ask. Please, let us in. Let us stay until winter pass. We work. We do anything. Just please." He smiled, but there was no warmth in it, only the sharp edge of remembered rage. "You know what your people say?"

  Fassel's jaw tightened but he didn't answer.

  "THEY SAY NO!" Barek shouted. "They say is not their problem! They say orcs not welcome in Darransh territory! They say go somewhere else!" His smile widened. "So we go. We walk. And we die."

  The human words felt inadequate for what he wanted to express, but they would do.

  "Six hundred people," Barek said. "Women. Children. Old ones who cannot fight. They all die because your city say no. Because Darransh think is better we freeze than you let us inside for few months." He stopped about five meters away from Fassel. "I remember every single one. I remember how they look when they fall. How they stop moving. How the snow cover them."

  The steward's breathing had slowed slightly, but his stance remained defensive.

  "That your people," Barek said. "That what you are. You sit safe behind wall and you decide who deserve live and who deserve die, and you never think about it again after." His grip tightened on his axe. "So yes. I come here. I come here to make you pay. To make all of you pay. Every kingdom. Every city. Everyone who look away when we need help."

  Behind him, the orc army rumbled with approval. Some of them had been there that winter. They remembered too.

  "Orc lord—" Fassel's voice came out hoarse. He had to stop and swallow before continuing. "My lord, we had nothing to do with what happened to your people. That was... that was thirty years ago, it was a different steward. Different—"

  "Same city!" Barek cut him off, his voice rising. "Same gate! Same wall! You think because is different person, is different?" He laughed harshly. "No. Is same. Your people make choice then. They make choice every time after. Every time orc come asking for help and you say no. Every time you see us struggle and you look away. Every time you pretend we not exist."

  "Please," Fassel said, desperation creeping into his voice now. "Please, my lord. The people in that city—most of them weren't even born when that happened. They're innocent. They're just—"

  "Innocent?" Barek's laugh was louder this time, genuinely amused. "You keep using that word. Like it mean something." He shook his head. "No such thing as innocent. Not with your kind. You all know. Maybe you not do the thing yourself, but you know. You see. And you do nothing."

  He took another step forward and Fassel instinctively took one back.

  "I decide something long time ago," Barek said, his broken Common somehow making the words hit harder. "I decide I make list. Every kingdom that turn us away. Every city that close gate. Every place that let my people die and not care." He gestured with his axe toward Enariel. "Darransh on that list. Top of that list. And now... now I come to collect."

  The steward's face had gone pale. "If you... if you do this, if you take the city, you're no better than—"

  "Better?" Barek interrupted him, and for the first time there was genuine confusion in his voice. "I not trying be better. I trying make you understand. I trying make you feel what we feel." He leaned forward slightly. "Your people take everything from us. Home. Family. Dignity. You make us run like animals. You make us beg. You make us watch our children die." His smile returned, vicious and satisfied. "Now is your turn."

  Behind him, the chanting started again, louder this time, more frenzied.

  "BA-REK! BA-REK! BA-REK!"

  Axes beat against shields in a thunderous rhythm that shook the ground. Voices roared approval and bloodlust in equal measure.

  Fassel's sword dipped slightly, his arms unable to hold it steady anymore.

  "Then do it," the steward said, his voice breaking. "If that's what you've decided, then do it. But know that you're damning innocent people for—"

  "Stop saying innocent!" Barek snarled, the Common words coming out harsher now. "You not innocent! None of you innocent! You all guilty! Every single person in that city who live comfortable life while my people suffer—they guilty! Every person who hear about what happen to orcs and think 'not my problem'—they guilty!" He raised his axe. "This not about fair or right. This about making sure you never forget what happen when you turn your back on people who need help."

  He moved.

  The axe came down in a brutal arc. Fassel tried to raise his sword to block but his exhausted arms were too slow. The blade caught the edge of the axe and was ripped from his hands, spinning off into the dirt.

  Barek's boot slammed into Fassel's chest, sending the steward sprawling backward. He hit the ground hard, gasping, one hand clutching at his ribs where something had definitely cracked.

  The orc army roared.

  Barek walked forward slowly, letting his shadow fall over the fallen man. Fassel tried to push himself up but his injured shoulder gave out and he collapsed back down.

  "You want know something?" Barek said, standing over him and looking down with something approaching satisfaction. "I enjoy this. I enjoy watching you bleed and knowing that after I kill you, your city belong to me. That your people have to live with knowing they next." He crouched down, bringing his face level with Fassel's. "You think this bad? Wait until I finish with rest of Darransh and every kingdom on my list."

  Without a word, Fassel pushed himself up on his knees. His hands pressed into the dirt, arms shaking violently, blood dripping from his shoulder onto the ground in thick drops. He lifted his head and looked at Barek with eyes that were glassy with pain but still held some semblance of stubbornness in them.

  Barek stopped mid-motion and the steward's mouth moved. At first, no sound came out. Then, barely above a whisper: "I'm sorry."

  "..."

  "I'm sorry," Fassel said again, louder now even though it clearly hurt him to speak. "For... for all of it. You're right. We knew. We did nothing." He coughed again, more blood staining his beard. "I'm sorry."

  Barek stared at him.

  What is he doing? he thought.

  Behind him, the chanting had stopped. The entire orc army had gone silent, watching this strange exchange.

  Fassel's arms gave out and he collapsed forward, catching himself at the last moment with his good arm. But he didn't stay down. He pushed up again, struggling against his broken body's protests, and then he lunged.

  It wasn't graceful or even coordinated. The steward threw himself forward with his good arm outstretched, reaching for Barek's throat with desperate fingers, putting everything he had left into one final, futile attack.

  Barek just looked at the man coming toward him and pushed. The air between them rippled as reality seemed to bend. An invisible force slammed into Fassel mid-lunge like he'd run full speed into a stone wall.

  Then came a crack.

  It came from the Darranshi steward's skull, to be exact. It exploded as bone fragmented under the crushing pressure of Barek's will, shards driving inward into brain matter with wet, tearing sounds. His head compressed like an overripe fruit in a vice, collapsing in on itself as blood and worse things erupted from every opening. His eyes bulged from their sockets before bursting. The back of his skull blew outward in a spray of bone fragments and gore that scattered across the dirt behind him.

  For half a second, Fassel's body remained upright through sheer momentum alone, his arms still reaching forward even as his head hung like a broken sack barely attached to his neck.

  Then Barek released the pressure.

  The corpse dropped and hit the ground with a heavy, final thud, and what was left of Fassel's head struck the packed earth with a wet sound that made even some of the orcs wince. Blood and brain matter spread out from the body in a dark pool that grew rapidly, seeping into the dirt.

  The silence that followed lasted perhaps two seconds.

  Then the orc army exploded.

  "BA-REK! BA-REK! BA-REK!"

  Seven hundred voices roared as one. Axes pounded against shields in a deafening rhythm that shook the ground. Fists thrust into the air. The sound was like a wave of pure triumph that rolled across the field and crashed against Enariel's walls.

  "BA-REK! BA-REK! BA-REK!"

  On the walls of the capital city, the people of Darransh stood frozen in horror. Some had their hands over their mouths. Others had turned away, unable to keep looking at what remained of their steward. A woman near the gate tower was vomiting over the side of the wall and a man had collapsed to his knees while children were crying.

  Barek stood over Fassel's corpse for a moment longer, then turned away and started walking toward the gates of Enariel. His army parted for him immediately, creating a path, still chanting his name like it was the only word that mattered.

  He reached the massive iron-reinforced gates and stopped. They were easily twenty feet tall, bound with steel bands and reinforced with crossbeams. Built to withstand most magic, battering rams and siege engines.

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  Barek placed one hand against the wood.

  Then he pushed and the gates shattered. The wood splintered with explosive force, iron bands snapping like thread as the doors were ripped from their hinges and sent flying inward. One gate crashed into a building on the left side of the entrance, demolishing the ground floor. The other skidded across the cobblestones, screeching against the stone before slamming into a fountain and reducing it to rubble.

  Behind Barek, the roar of his army intensified.

  And in his mind, quiet and steady like always, came the voices.

  Good, yes. Strong. They fear you now. As they should.

  "Did I do well? He asked the voice.

  Yes, you did well. As always, great lord. Soon, they will all fall.

  Barek felt the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. The voices were right. They were always right. He stepped through the ruined gates into Enariel.

  The street beyond was wide and paved with clean cobblestones. Buildings rose on either side, well-maintained and painted in soft colors. Shops lined the ground floors. Homes sat above them. Everything was neat. Orderly. Prosperous.

  And completely empty.

  Everyone had fled deeper into the city when the gates exploded.

  Behind him, seven hundred orcs poured through the entrance, still chanting and roaring, spreading out into the streets like a flood.

  Barek walked forward slowly, his boots clicking against the cobblestones, and let his army flow around him.

  The bells started ringing almost immediately.

  They came from deep within the city, from the temple district if Barek remembered the maps correctly. Urgent, frantic peals that echoed off the stone buildings and rolled through the streets.

  Barek looked up, following the sound to where he could just see the top of a bell tower rising above the rooftops several blocks away. The bells continued their desperate song, and he wondered briefly who was pulling the ropes. Some priest? A guard who'd fled there thinking it was safe?

  "Well done, my lord."

  The voice came from beside him. Barek turned and found an elf standing there, tall and lean in dark traveling clothes that somehow remained pristine despite the dust and chaos around them. His silver hair was tied back in a simple tail and his ageless face wore an expression of quiet satisfaction.

  "Theranel," Barek said in Orcish, the language flowing easily now that he didn't have to struggle with Common. "It was nothing, really. The fight was rather disappointing, if I'm being honest."

  The elf smiled. "One of the things I imagine a being like yourself would feel, my lord. At level 3090, there are precious few challenges left in this world." He gestured gracefully at the ruined gates, and Fassel's corpse still bleeding in the dirt outside. "It feels lonely at the top. You should get used to it. Savor the sweetness of flawless victory, especially after knowing only the bitterness of defeat for so long."

  Barek chuckled. "This is all thanks to your gift, Theranel. Without it, I'd still be—"

  "The gift only lives up to the gifted's potential," Theranel interrupted smoothly. "If you have become this strong, it is because eventually, you would have obtained this power one way or another. You had it in you all along. There is nothing to thank me for, my lord. I merely... accelerated the inevitable."

  Barek started walking deeper into the city, his boots clicking against the cobblestones. Around them, his army was beginning to organize itself, forming into two long columns that created a corridor with him and Theranel at the center.

  "Any news from General Korreth?" Barek asked, keeping his voice level despite the tightness in his chest. "About my son?"

  Theranel's expression didn't change. "No. Not yet. A raven would be sent immediately if there was something new to report."

  "I see."

  They walked in silence for a few steps, passing a fountain that had been knocked over in the initial rush, water spreading across the street in a thin sheet.

  "Do not worry too much, my lord," Theranel said, his voice taking on a sympathetic tone. "Your son and his men... they simply do not understand your vision yet. It happens. The young often struggle to see beyond their immediate circumstances, to grasp the larger picture of what must be done." He glanced at Barek. "One day, he too will see what you see. He will understand why this is necessary. Why all of it is necessary."

  Barek wanted to believe that. God, he wanted to believe it so badly it made his chest ache.

  "I suppose so," he said quietly.

  A massive orc pushed through the ranks, his armor decorated with battle trophies and a necklace of what looked like finger bones. General Vrakar, one of Barek's most trusted commanders, approached with purposeful strides.

  "My lord," Vrakar said in Orcish, bowing his head briefly. "Grishka has scouted the area." He gestured vaguely upward, referring to their warg, the shaman who could slip his consciousness into birds and see through their eyes. "Most of the people have fled to the upper city, along with what remains of their army. They've barricaded themselves in the noble district."

  Barek's expression didn't change. "Have they surrendered?"

  "Not yet, my lord." Vrakar's tusks gleamed as he smiled. "But they will soon."

  "Good," Barek said, nodding slowly. "Very good." He turned to face his general fully. "I'll let you deal with that, then. Take whoever you need. Standard terms: those who surrender and hand over their weapons live. Those who resist..." He left the sentence unfinished.

  "Understood, my lord." Vrakar struck his chest with one fist in salute.

  Barek's attention drifted upward, toward the temple district where the bells continued their desperate ringing. The sound had become almost rhythmic now.

  "My lord," Vrakar said, following his gaze. "Should I send warriors to silence whoever's doing that?"

  "No," Barek said quietly. "I'll go myself."

  Vrakar looked momentarily surprised but quickly masked it. He nodded once more and turned to bark orders at the surrounding warriors, who immediately began organizing into squads for the push toward the upper city.

  Barek started walking in the direction of the bells, and Theranel fell into step beside him.

  The streets here were wider than those near the gates, clearly designed for merchant wagons and noble carriages. Buildings rose three and four stories high, their facades painted in whites and pale blues that reflected the afternoon sun. Shutters hung at odd angles where people had fled in panic. A cart had been overturned in the middle of the street, apples scattered across the cobblestones like red and green marbles.

  "Darransh," Theranel said conversationally, his eyes sweeping across the architecture. "Quite a historical kingdom. Founded nearly eight thousand years ago, if I recall correctly. One of the first human settlements after the Sundering."

  Barek grunted noncommittally, his focus still on the sound of the bells ahead.

  They turned a corner into what appeared to be a plaza. A large fountain dominated the center—still intact, unlike the one near the gates—with water flowing from the mouths of stone fish. Around the plaza's edge stood several important-looking buildings: a library, a merchant's guild hall, what might have been a courthouse.

  And in the very center of the plaza, rising beside the fountain, stood a statue.

  It was massive, easily ten meters tall, carved from white marble that seemed to glow in the sunlight. The figure depicted was a man in flowing robes, one hand raised skyward, the other holding a staff topped with a radiating sun. His face was stern but noble, with a strong jaw and emerald incrusted eyes that seemed to look into the distance. At the statue's base, words were carved in elegant script:

  Sael the Great - Master of Lightbringer, Corruption's Bane, Protector of the Realm

  Barek slowed as they approached, his eyes moving over the statue with mild curiosity. He'd heard of Sael, of course. Everyone had. The legendary hero who'd supposedly saved the world from some great evil centuries ago.

  Theranel stopped walking entirely.

  The elf stood perfectly still for a moment, staring up at the statue with an expression Barek had never seen on his face before. It wasn't anger exactly, or at least not just anger.

  Theranel raised one hand, and the air around the statue shimmered. Reality seemed to fold in on itself, and then the marble began to crack. Fractures spider-webbed across the surface in an instant, racing up from the base to the raised hand, across the noble face, through the flowing robes. The sound was like thunder, a sharp CRACK that echoed off the plaza's buildings.

  The statue shattered.

  Chunks of marble exploded outward in all directions. The head broke free and crashed into the fountain, smashing through the stone fish and sending water geysering into the air. The torso split into three large pieces that slammed into the cobblestones with earth-shaking thuds. The arms, the legs, the flowing robes—all of it reduced to rubble in seconds.

  Dust rose in a cloud around the destruction, and water from the broken fountain began spreading across the plaza floor.

  Barek stared at the ruins, then at Theranel.

  "I must say," he said slowly, "I'm quite astonished by the hatred you have toward Sael the Great. To break even a statue of him like that..."

  Theranel smiled, but there was no warmth in it. If anything, it made him look more dangerous.

  "He was the one," the elf said quietly, his voice carrying an edge like a razor, "who made the Gift look like a curse. He went as far as calling it 'Corruption.' He lied about me and all those gifted, spreading tales of monsters and abominations, painting us as villains to be hunted and destroyed." His pale eyes remained fixed on the rubble. "He turned the world against us and made people fear what they should have embraced. Called progress 'evil' and stagnation 'righteousness.'"

  Theranel walked forward until he stood at the edge of the debris field. Then, deliberately, he spat on the remains of Sael's face, a chunk of marble that showed one stern eye and part of that noble jaw.

  "Four hundred years," Theranel murmured, "and they still worship his lies."

  The sound of the bells continued in the distance, undeterred by the destruction.

  "This is bad luck."

  The voice came from nearby. It was thin, elderly, and trembling.

  Barek turned and saw an old woman sitting on a bench at the edge of the plaza. She was tiny, hunched with age, her white hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her clothes marked her as lower nobility or perhaps wealthy merchant class. She sat perfectly still, hands folded in her lap, and neither he nor Theranel had noticed her until she spoke.

  "...What?"

  "Bad luck," she repeated, her voice carrying across the plaza. "To destroy Sael's monument like that."

  Theranel turned to look at her, his cold smile still in place. But the old woman didn't react to his attention.

  "Who are you?" Barek asked in human Common.

  The question surprised him even as he spoke it. Usually, he wouldn't care. An old woman sitting on a bench wasn't worth his attention, not when there was a city to secure and people to organize. But something about her presence here—her stillness, her calm, the fact that neither he nor Theranel had noticed her until she spoke—granted her some measure of attention, he supposed.

  The old woman's head tilted slightly, as if she were looking at him, though her gaze seemed to focus somewhere near his face rather than directly on it.

  "My name is Meraine Grenn," she said. "I am—I was—a priestess of the Light, in service to this city for forty-three years." She paused, her wrinkled hands tightening slightly in her lap. "I am also the mother of the man I assume you killed, since you are here and my son is not, and the whole city seems... lifeless."

  Barek felt nothing in particular at the revelation.

  "Your son death not unfair," Barek said, the human words clumsy in his mouth. "He come for duel instead of wait and lose because of siege. He lose by give his blood, like we agree." He gestured broadly at the city around them. "Nothing be done to your people but make them leave and find other place to live. Just like it done to us. To orc." His jaw tightened. "Darransh is mine now."

  A that, for some reason, the old woman laughed.

  It started quiet, almost like a cough, but grew into something fuller. It did not seem hysterical or mocking, just... genuinely amused. The sound echoed slightly off the plaza's buildings, mixing with the distant ringing of bells.

  Theranel's smile vanished. His pale eyes narrowed as he took a step toward the bench.

  "What," the elf said softly, "are you laughing about?"

  Meraine's laughter faded into a soft chuckle, her shoulders still shaking slightly with the remnants of it.

  "I laugh," she said calmly now, "because you claim Darransh as yours, as if you had fought its owner for it."

  Barek felt his jaw tighten. "Your son was the ruler. We fought. I won."

  "My son was but the steward," Meraine said, emphasis on the word. "He stood in place of the rightful king. He guarded the throne faithfully, as his duty demanded, but he was not the king."

  There was a pause as the bells continued their distant ringing.

  "And who is the king?" Barek asked. "From what I know, Darransh always only have steward."

  Meraine's hand rose slowly, one gnarled finger pointing upward without her head moving to look. Her aim was precise despite her unfocused gaze, directed toward a hill that rose above the city's eastern quarter.

  "At the top of that hill," she said, "there is a sword in a rock. According to Darranshi tradition, he who takes the sword out of the rock becomes the king until his death. When he passes, the sword returns to the stone, and the next king must take it out again." Her hand lowered back to her lap. "It is the person who took that sword from the rock you should have fought for Darransh. Not my son, who merely guarded the throne faithfully in the king's absence."

  Theranel's eyes narrowed. "You're talking about Sael?"

  "Indeed," Meraine said, and there was something almost pleased in her tone. "He was the last one to take the sword out, after all."

  Barek felt something shift in his gut. A cold, crawling sensation that made his skin prickle despite the afternoon warmth. It was subtle at first, like the whisper of wind before a storm, but it grew stronger with each passing second.

  His [Sixth sense]—The skill that had kept him alive through countless battles and had warned him of ambushes and dangers he couldn't see—flared to life. Sharp, insistent. Screaming at him in a way it hadn't in years.

  Barek's hand tightened on his axe, though he didn't know why.

  Theranel made a sharp sound of disgust. "Tsk. You're quite the mad one, aren't you? To think a dead man would be saving you from the fall." His eyes fixed on the old woman with pity. "Your 'king' has been dead for four hundred years, priestess. Whatever hope you're clinging to is—"

  "Who says he is dead?" Meraine asked.

  The question hung in the air for a moment.

  "What you mean?" Barek demanded.

  The bells rang louder now. More frantic. The sound echoed off the buildings and seemed to burrow into his skull, and Barek noticed for the first time that Theranel's jaw had tightened, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides. The elf was getting irritated by it.

  "Have you not heard the news?" Meraine asked, her head tilting slightly as if genuinely curious.

  "What news?"

  Meraine lifted one hand and made a small gesture, almost lazy in its execution. Wind coiled around her immediately, visible as faint distortions in the air that spiraled up her arm and across her shoulders like living things.

  A wind elementalist. She'd done a contract with a wind spirit, it seemed.

  The air around her shimmered, and a small shape materialized beside her head, a bird-like thing made entirely of swirling wind, its form constantly shifting and reforming as it hovered near her shoulder.

  "My little bird," Meraine said, "told me quite the interesting thing just this afternoon—"

  "Enough with this!" Theranel snapped, his calm facade cracking for the first time since Barek had known him. The elf took a sharp step forward, his hand cutting through the air in a gesture of dismissal. "Enough with your mad ramblings and enough with those damned bells!" His voice rose, cold fury bleeding into every word. "Your city surrendered under conquest by duel. The terms were clear, the agreement witnessed by both armies. There are no grounds to be ringing bells of alarm as if an enemy enters the city, the conquest is complete!"

  Barek looked at the old woman. The wind around her had picked up, swirling faster now, lifting strands of her white hair and making her robes billow slightly. The air pressure in the plaza had changed, he realized. It felt heavier somehow, charged with something he couldn't name. Was it mana, perhaps?

  And the sky...

  Now that he noticed it, the afternoon sun was gone. Gray clouds had rolled in, thick and heavy, covering the sky. When had that happened? How had he not noticed? It would be raining soon.

  "If you're looking for who caused the bells to ring," Meraine said, her unfocused eyes still pointed vaguely in Theranel's direction, "that would be me."

  Theranel went very still.

  "As for the reason," she continued, and now there was the faintest hint of a smile on her wrinkled face, "it is not for enemy intrusion."

  Barek's survival instinct screamed louder. His eyes snapped upward, scanning the gray sky, searching for something, anything. He felt that if danger was coming, it would come from up there, and finally...

  There.

  Very far away, barely visible among the other clouds, a single mass stood out. Darker than the rest. Almost black. And it was moving toward the city with purpose, cutting through the air like a ship through water. Lightning crackled within it, bright flashes that illuminated the cloud from within, making it pulse with mana.

  The smile on Meraine's face widened just slightly.

  "This," she said quietly, "is reckoning."

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