Jinnar—who’d taken it upon himself to fight, and failed.

The single best wind worker in Arnes, reduced to a burning puppet, a pile of ash.

Lila was lounging on the floor, her back against Alucard’s sofa, and the sight of her sitting there—near the damned privateer instead of Kell—stoked the fire in Kell’s aching chest.

The minutes ticked past, and his damp hair finally began to dry, yet no one spoke. Instead the air hummed with the frustration of things unsaid, of fights gone dormant.

“Well,” said the prince at last, “I think it’s safe to say that didn’t go as planned.”

The words broke the seal, and suddenly the room was filled with voices.

“Jinnar was my friend,” said Alucard, glaring at Kell, “and he’s dead because of you.”

“Jinnar is dead because of himself,” said Kell, shaking off Tieren’s attentions. “No one forced him onto that balcony. No one told him to attack the shadow king.”

Lila scowled. “You should have let Holland drown.”

“Why didn’t you?” interjected Rhy.

“After all,” she went on, “wasn’t it supposed to be an execution? Or did you have other plans? Ones you didn’t share with us.”

“Yes, Kell,” chimed Alucard. “Do enlighten us.”

Kell shot the captain a frigid look. “Why are you here?”

“Kell,” said the king in a low, stern way. “Tell them.”

Kell ran a hand through his frizzing hair, frustrated. “Osaron needs permission to take an Antari shell,” he said. “The plan was for Holland to let Osaron in, and for me to then kill Holland.”

“I knew it,” said Lila.

“So did Osaron, it seems,” said Rhy.

“During the execution,” continued Kell, “Holland was trying to draw Osaron in. When Osaron appeared, I assumed it had worked, but then when he pushed Holland into the river … I didn’t think—”

“No,” snapped Rhy, “you didn’t.”

Kell held his ground. “He might have let Holland drown, or he might have simply been trying to get him away from us before claiming his shell, and if you think Osaron is bad without a body, you should have seen him in Holland’s. I didn’t realize he was after me until it was too late.”

“It was the right thing to do,” said the king. Kell looked at him, stunned. It was the closest Maxim had come to taking Kell’s side in months.

“Well,” said Rhy peevishly, “Holland is still alive, and Osaron is still free, and we still have no idea how to stop him.”

Kell pressed his palms to his eyes. “Osaron still needs a body.”

“He doesn’t seem to think so,” said Lila.

“He’ll change his mind,” said Kell.

Rhy stopped pacing. “How do you know?”

“Because right now, he can afford to be stubborn. He has too many options.” Kell looked to Tieren, who had remained silent, still as stone. “Once you put the city to sleep, he’ll run out of bodies to play with. He’ll get restless. He’ll get angry. And then we’ll have his attention.”

“And what do we do then?” said Lila, exasperated. “Even if we can convince Osaron to take the body we give him, we have to be fast enough to trap him in it. It’s like trying to catch lightning.”

“We need another way to contain him,” said Rhy. “Something better than a body. Bodies come with minds, and those, as we know, can be manipulated.” He plucked a small silver sphere off a shelf, and stretched it out between his fingers. The sphere was made of fine metal cords woven in such a way that they drew apart, expanding into a large orb of delicate filaments, and folded back together, collapsing into a dense ball of tightly coiled silver. “We need something stronger. Something permanent.”

“We would need an Inheritor,” said Tieren softly.

The room looked to the Aven Essen, but it was Maxim who spoke. He was turning red. “You told me they didn’t exist.”

“No,” said Tieren. “I told you I would not help you make one.”

The priest and the king locked stares for long enough that Rhy spoke up. “Anyone want to explain?”

“An Inheritor,” said Tieren slowly, addressing the room, “is a device that transfers magic. And even if it could be made, it is by its very nature corrupt, an outright defiance of cardinal law and an interference”—Maxim stiffened at this—“with the natural order of magical selection.”

The room went quiet. The king’s face was rigid with anger, Rhy’s own features set but pale, and understanding settled in Kell’s chest. A device to transfer magic would be able to grant it to those without. What wouldn’t a father do for a son born without power? What wouldn’t a king do for his heir?

When the prince spoke, his voice was careful, even. “Is that really possible, Tieren?”

“In theory,” answered the priest, crossing to an ornate desk that stood in the corner of the room. He pulled a piece of parchment from the drawer, produced a pencil from one of the many folds of his white priest robes, and began to draw.

“Magic, as you know, does not follow blood. It chooses the strong and the weak as it will. As is natural,” he added, casting a stern look at the king. “But some time ago, a nobleman named Tolec Loreni wanted a way to pass on not only his land and his titles, but also his power to his beloved eldest son.” The sketch on the page began to take shape. A metal cylinder shaped like a scroll, the length embossed with spellwork. “He designed a device that could be spelled to take and hold a person’s power until the next of kin could lay claim to it.”