Wake up.

It was Jode’s voice. Faint, distant, but as familiar to Daine as the voice of his father.

Wake up!

The scent of smoke was strong in the air. He could hear a rhythmic pounding, the sound of metal on metal—a column of armored soldiers, marching nearby. There was a terrible pain in his left thigh, as if he’d been stabbed. His other injuries seemed to have vanished.

He opened his eyes.

The night sky was hidden by dark clouds, lit from below by distant fires, but Daine knew that light wasn’t coming from an elven city. He could hear torn tents flapping in the slight wind, and he could feel a rough pallet beneath him.

This was Keldan Ridge. The camp on the hill.

He sat up, sending a pulse of pain through his injured thigh. “Jode?”

The campsite was deserted, and Jode was nowhere to be seen. He rose slowly to his feet. The sound of armored footsteps grew louder, and he saw that a column of warforged was marching in a circle around the camp. These were the warforged he’d fought in the battle, and they formed a moving wall of metal bristling with blades and spikes.

“This didn’t happen,” he said, only half expecting an answer.

“Are you certain? Perhaps you just don’t remember it.” The voice was an all-too-familiar purr. The woman standing next to Daine pulled her hood back. Her silvery-white hair reminded him of the wretched elves, but her skin was as pale as snow.

“Tashana,” he said.

Wrapped in her cloak, she seemed more shadow than substance; either she was surrounded by a thin layer of dark mist, or she was only a shade herself. She met Daine’s gaze, and her eyes gleamed. “Your protector grows weaker by the hour, and now that you’re imprisoned it’s only a matter of time before I shatter her defenses and break you.”

She reached out to touch his face, and he found that he couldn’t move. Suddenly it was Lei beside him, and he felt a disturbing thrill as she stroked his cheek. He tried to speak, but he was frozen in place. “But what about our houses?” she said, glancing coyly to the side. She laughed, becoming Tashana again as she pulled her hand away.

“Ah, Lei,” Tashana said as she pulled up her hood. “We’ll have some fun with her, you and I. It was I who killed her betrothed, you know, and I’ll do worse before I’m through with the two of you.”

Daine was burning with fury, but for all his anger, he still couldn’t move.

“Who are you playing with now?”

The voice came from behind him, from further away, and it drew an angry hiss from the woman at his side, but it was a familiar voice—Tashana’s voice. He flung his fury at the force that held him paralyzed, and he felt something give.

Wake up.

And he did.

Daine awoke in darkness.

Again.

“Why couldn’t I get captured by light elves,” he muttered.

At least this time, the darkness felt natural—a simple absence of light, as opposed to some supernatural force or the fading effects of poison. He was lying on a smooth glass floor, and after twitching his fingers and toes he decided that everything was where it should be. He sat up.

“Gaah!”

The ceiling of the cell was less than three feet high, and his forehead slammed against the glass ceiling. He stretched out his hands, tracing the walls of his prison. It was a small hollow, a little over six feet long and about three feet high and three feet wide. Every wall was made of smooth glass, with no trace of a door. There were two small glass bowls lying next to him—one filled with water, and the other with what seemed to be thick gruel.

“‘Oh, trust me, you’ll get your meal and your bed.’” Daine slammed a fist against the wall. “The gray rat just never bothered to mention they’d be in a thrice damned prison cell.”

Silence was the only response.

He patted his clothes. The shirt beneath his chainmail was stiff with sweat and blood, and he could only imagine how bad he must smell. His dagger and the club were gone, but they’d left his belt pouch alone.

Wake up, he thought. Perhaps it was all still a dream.

He reached into his pouch and searched through its contents: a few copper crowns, the keys to the inn and to his trunk back in High Walls, a shard of green crystal, and a small glass vial filled with blue liquid—glowing blue liquid.

He took out the vial and set it on the floor next to him. The light was faint, but in the absolute darkness of the cell, it was a startling change. His earlier suspicions were confirmed: there were no signs of door or window, just smooth black glass all around. With the aid of the glowing vial, he found a few tiny holes in the ceiling, smaller than his smallest finger—air holes, presumably, to prevent him from suffocating.

He examined the two bowls under the blue light. The water seemed clear enough, and the gruel looked lumpy and unappetizing.

“Care for some gruel?” he asked the bottle.

The best thing about dying? Never eating gruel again.

“Sure, but you’re missing out on this great water. I’m sure it’s a fine gnomish vintage.”

Ooh, you’re right. Maybe you could just pour some in the bottle.

It wasn’t Jode, but staring at the vial, with Jode’s dragonmark stamped on the seal, it was comforting to imagine what his old friend would say if he were still around.

I think the elves are just trying to wear you down. After all, you put up such a fierce fight—they’re probably afraid of you.

Daine swallowed a mouthful of porridge. “I didn’t see you lending a hand.”

In truth, the struggle could hardly be called a fight. Once Gerrion joined the elves, Daine and Lakashtai were outnumbered by more than ten to one. Daine was weak from poison, and Lakashtai had expended a great deal of mental power in the earlier battle. The priest had bound Daine in chains of cold fire, and someone had clubbed him from behind; the last thing he’d seen was Lakashtai facing the woman with the flaming blades.

Hard to lend a hand when you don’t have any, but I healed you, didn’t I?

Daine paused to consider this. It was true. The gouge on his cheek was gone. The sickly weakness from the poison had faded away. Aside from the terrible hunger in his belly—which the gruel was addressing, however unpleasantly—he felt fine. “Really?”

Of course not. I’m dead, remember? The elves must have done it.

“Why would they do that?”

How should I know? They were talking about prophecies, legends and testing you. Maybe they want you healthy for it.

“I thought the test was fighting those guards.”

Well, that would have been a big failure.

“I failed you.”

I didn’t give you much of a choice, did I?

Daine looked at the little bottle. “You were there for me when I was at my worst. I should have—I should have known. I should have taken better care of you.”

Enough self pity. I’m the dead one. You’ve got other things to think about.

“Like what? Digging my way through a wall of glass?” He sorted through his belongings and produced the crystal shard. “I’m sure this will do the job.”

The words had scarcely left his lips when he felt a wave of intense heat. An orange glow suffused the wall to his right, and as he watched the wall melted away. Instead of simply flowing down toward the ground, the molten glass spread out in a circle—flowing up and sideways in defiance of gravity.

An instant later the glass was cold again, leaving a round exit from the cell. The chamber beyond was lit by flickering firelight, and Daine could see dark figures standing around the door.

“Out,” a voice called—a woman’s voice, deep but sweet.

Daine quickly thrust his belongings back into the belt pouch. Grabbing the gruel bowl, he slid out of the alcove.

The chamber beyond was formed of pure black glass. Haven’t these people heard of wood or stone? The floor was slightly rough, providing traction. The walls were smooth and reflective, but Daine could see a double row of rough circles along the wall. More cells, I suppose. The upper row of circles was six feet off the ground, and Daine idly wondered how you’d get someone into a cell that far up. There were no exits that he could see—just a huge hearth filled with a roaring fire on the far wall.

There were four guards standing around the cell when Daine emerged, but his eyes were drawn to their leader. It was the woman he’d seen beyond the walls, the warrior with burning blades. Zulaje. She was almost a foot shorter than Daine and couldn’t be more than half his weight. Her hair was hidden beneath her bonfire helm, which appeared to be made from soot-coated gold. At the moment, she was holding her sword in a neutral posture, but Daine could see the graceful tension of her grip, the way her feet were spread, knees slightly bent—she was ready for battle, and she knew how to wield that weapon. Her chain armor was still orange with heat, and the fiery tattoos spread across her face seemed to burn as she stared up at him.

“Your presence is sought,” she sang softly, flowing her words together as Shen’kar had. “Waste time and you die, and you waste time already.”

“Oh, I hate to waste time,” Daine said. “Lead on. You don’t mind if I finish this on the way, do you?” He indicated the bowl of porridge. “I love gruel, and let me tell you, it doesn’t get much better than this.”

Zulaje glared at him disdainfully then turned her back without saying a word. Two of the guards took up positions on either side of Daine, spears lowered; the other two remained by the row of cells. Zulaje led the way across the room, and as they approached the hearth, Daine saw that it held no logs nor any fuel at all that he could see; it was a wall of searing flame, deadly and pure. The drow woman whispered to the fire, and it slowly died down, revealing a long, dark hallway. After the party had crossed the threshold, the flames sprung up again, as fierce as before.

Firebinders, Daine thought. He took another swallow of gruel. He turned to the elf to his right as they walked down the hall. The man’s face was devoid of expression; he might have been carved from volcanic glass.

“Really great,” he said. “Do you eat this yourself?”

The guard said nothing.

“Really. Have you tried the prison food?”

Daine guessed that the man didn’t speak the Common tongue of Khorvaire, but he wasn’t waiting for an answer. Instead, he was waiting for the soldier to glance toward his commanding officer, hoping for a cue on how to deal with the noisy human—and a moment later, he did just that.

“See what you think.”

Daine brought the bowl up in a sweeping motion, flinging cold porridge into the guard’s face. Reversing the motion, he then brought it down in a vicious arc, slamming the obsidian bowl into the man’s fingers. The guard didn’t cry out, but he pulled back his hand—leaving only one hand on his spear. Dropping the bowl, Daine grabbed the spear in both hands and jerked backwards, yanking the weapon free from the dazed man’s grip. The elf opened his mouth to cry out, to warn his fellows—but he wasn’t fast enough. Daine jabbed the point of the spear into the man’s throat, silencing his cry before it could begin. The elf fell to his knees, gurgling and clutching his neck.

The other elves didn’t need any warning; the motion alone had been sufficient to attract their attention. Zulaje and her companion turned to face Daine, and he barely had time to step back against the wall.

“Tend the fallen, Xuxajor.” Zulaje was speaking Elvish, but Daine found he could still understand the words—whatever Lakashtai had done before, the power was still in effect. “I will take this one.”

Daine slowly backed away, keeping the bloody point of his spear leveled at the drow woman. “I don’t know what this is about or what Gerrion has told you,” he said, “but it’s a mistake.”

“This I know,” Zulaje said softly. She held her weapon in a vertical guard, concealing her true reach. She slowly moved toward him, keeping her blades in slight but constant motion; the pattern of the burning steel was hypnotic and distracting. “Too long have we looked to the world beyond—it is time for our flames to sweep across this land.”

Daine tried to keep his eyes on Zulaje, to ignore the flickering flames. Her smoldering red armor was almost as distracting, pulsing with inner heat. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“No fear.” She ran her unarmored right hand up along the shaft of her sword, and wrapped her fingers around the burning blade. The flame tattoos around her eyes glowed with an inner light, but she showed no signs of pain. “I am the child of fire. My blood burns, and you will not spill it this day.” She released the blade, restoring her two-handed grip. “Come. Holuar’s worm calls you the child of war. Let us see if you are worthy of the name.”

“I’d say cousin, at best.” She’s overconfident at least, he thought. That’s something.

He let her move forward another foot. Then he launched into a full lunge, a deep thrust with the short spear.

Zulaje reacted instantly, spinning her blades to form a shield of fire, but Daine was prepared, and he swiftly spun the tip of the spear, matching her speed and spiraling toward her.

Close—but not enough. She leapt back just before the tip of the blade could strike her chest. She bared her teeth and slashed crosswise at his spear, but Daine pulled back before she could shatter it.

Overconfident … with good reason. “Well, I’ve shown you my trick as the cousin of war. What’ve you got, fire child?”

He was hoping to goad her, to provoke her into rash action. Her response surprised him. She hissed a word in a crackling tongue, and a moment later a wreath of crimson flames spread across her body.

She darted forward, a burning shadow wielding a shaft of light. As surprised as he was, Daine still had the presence of mind to make a swift thrust against her charge, and this time the spear struck true, but even as he felt the point pierce armor and strike flesh, a gout of flame flashed out along the shaft of the spear and across his skin.

He was on fire! He could feel the searing heat as his clothing caught flame and smell the stench of burning hair. At the same moment, Zulaje landed a solid blow on his spear, and the pole shattered in burning shards.

Rolling back, Daine slapped himself with his hands. His scalp was burned, his clothes were charred and burnt through in places, but after a few moments, he’d managed to put out the fire.

Zulaje was standing above him, one point of her weapon leveled at his head. He could only see her silhouette as she gazed at him through her burning shield.

“The tradition of flame brings you to Holuar, outlander, but you need no legs to fulfill the prophecy. Will you walk?”

Daine sighed and slowly rose to his feet. “Fine.” Zulaje stepped away as he stood, and he could see that she’d perfectly matched his reach.

“Then you will walk ahead, with my blade at your back.” She gestured for him to move forward.

The other guard had disappeared, along with his injured comrade; Daine imagined he had gone in search of a healer. A trail of blood drops could be seen running down the hallway.

“I would tell you that his death will mean your own.” Zulaje’s voice was barely audible over the crackling flames that surrounded her, “but I suspect he’ll outlive you either way.”