Gray expected the room to explode into movement. Into fighting. Several soldiers were shifting.

Baldwin lifted his hand. A gesture that demanded everyone stop.

The room stilled.

Conor glared through strands of his sweat-damp hair, his thick eyebrows lowered.

Very carefully, Conor adjusted his grip on Sorena. Her platinum braid dangled by her limp wrists, her polished fingernails torn. Cords of magic shimmered faintly, dragging Killian over the lush carpet like a child's wooden toy on a string. Killian twitched.

Conor's gaze darted over the room, and paused at Gray. Then, very precisely, it dropped down to Lunn.

'Oh,' said Conor.

He stared at Baldwin, his sharp jaw clenched and his mouth pressed together like he was holding back words, like Baldwin had just uttered a filthy word and Conor couldn't quite believe it.

'The Fey,' said Conor, 'are going to be very angry.'

Baldwin shifted. Minutely. Deliberately. 'You,' he said, 'harmed my children?'

'The Fey will declare war over this,' said Conor.

There was a quiet slide of a sword being unsheathed, somewhere off to the left.

Baldwin raised his hand again, and the sound stilled.

Heart hammering in his throat, Gray watched as Conor stalked in and dumped Sorena and Killian at Baldwin's feet.

Baldwin's magic was building. Conor's wasn't.

'My master,' said Conor, his gaze sweeping back over Lunn, 'will be quite pleased. Personally, I didn't think you'd do it, but he did insist that your temper would make a fool of you.'

Baldwin was utterly still. He lifted his gaze from Sorena and Killian. 'There will be no declarations of war. That fey killed my people, ordered by your master. My attack was not unprovoked.'

'I'm sure the Fey will see it like that,' said Conor.

His gaze darted over to Gray.

'Yes, that's Gray Griffin.' Baldwin was cold.

There was a horrible, long moment. Gray was still battling pitch-black rage, still struggling to move his attention away from where the Modig amulet had disappeared into Baldiwn's pocket. He drew in a ribboned breath.

'I'm open to negotiation, Conor,' said Baldwin, 'should you wish to speak with him-'

'There'll be no negotiation,' said Conor. 'I have you by the throat. You'll do as I say.'

Silence.

'The key to your vaults,' said Conor. 'You'll tell me where they're kept.'

The continued silence from Baldwin thudded through the room.

Conor glanced at Gray again. 'Do you need it spelled out? Leave.'

Gray stood rooted to the floor. Confusion engulfed him.

'I won't allow Gray to leave just yet,' said Baldwin.

Baldwin's voice was burning-cold. His gaze dropped to Sorena and Killian again, fleetingly.

It was as though Gray's muscles had turned to stone. He couldn't have moved if he wanted to. Surely, Conor wouldn't be so careless as to out-and-out tell Baldwin that Gray was his one non-negotionable.

Baldwin locked his cold eyes onto Conor. 'All right. We'll keep this simple. One thing at a time. Wilde wants access to my vaults?'

Conor narrowed his gaze. 'Yes.'

'And Wilde wants your cousin intact?' said Baldwin.

Gray ripped his focus away from the Modig amulet as his insides turned from pitch-black fury to fragile ice. Baldwin's kids were on the line, his military, his palace, his daughter and his favourite warrior were dumped - motionless - at his feet. He was an inch from losing it, he'd just killed Lunn, and he did not trust Baldwin not to trade, sacrifice, kill Gray if it meant-

'Hey,' said Gray, raising his palms in a placating gesture, 'let's all just-'

'Leave.' Conor's lip lifted in dangerous impatience.

Gray didn't move. Didn't lift his gaze, his senses, from Baldwin.

'I won't allow him to leave just yet. Let's,' said Baldwin, 'discuss this, Conor. Man to man. Perhaps we can even sit down with Gray.'

The room was filled with whistling silence.

Conor's thick eyebrows lowered further. There was the briefest flicker of an unsettling expression on his features. 'He leaves, you do as I tell you. Discussion over.'

'Perhaps first you can tell me about the state of my children?' said Baldwin.

Conor may as well have been cold marble, for all that he reacted. There was no movement from him. No building of his magic, as there was with Baldwin.

'Or perhaps,' said Baldwin, 'you'll allow one of my mages check my daughter-'

'No.'

Conor's no rippled through the room, like an invisible current.

The tension thickened.

'You're here for your cousin, yes?' said Baldwin, his jaw tight. 'Wilde wants him?'

'I'm here for the keys to the vault. You tell me where they're hidden.'

Baldwin peered at Conor, the slightest frown crossing his features.

'Wilde,' said Baldwin, slowly and completely controlled, 'wants your cousin, but you don't want Wilde to collect him.' Baldwin edged forward. 'Do I have that right?'

There was a sharp breath from Conor.

'You have,' Baldwin said, carefully, 'opinions and wants, do you? You aren't fully bound to Wilde?'

There was a movement from Conor. The subtlest tic as he blinked and the hairs on the back of Gray's neck rose.

Gray had the sudden thought that maybe Conor was unhinged. And this shouldn't have been any kind of damn revelation or insight. This should've been obvious from the reports of Conor rampaging through Lismere for weeks.

But it hit Gray like a cold slap.

And, maybe he wasn't the only one who saw it, because there was the sound of leathers rubbing slightly, behind Gray. A smooth draw of steel.

Baldwin raised his hand again.

The room stilled.

'Wilde requires your cousin?' said Baldwin.

'The keys,' said Conor.

'You are not here for my vault,' said Baldwin. 'You're here for Gray.'

'I am not here for him. Where are the keys to the vault?'

'Have you harmed my children, as you harmed my daughter and my man? I will not move onto telling you about the keys until you answer that, Conor.'

'You mean to ask,' said Conor, 'have I killed them?'

'Have you?'

Conor pointed his finger at Sorena slumped at his feet. 'She's alive. So is he.'

Something changed about the quality of Conor's pointing finger. The muscles were corded at his wrist, the tendons stood out on his hand, veins showed at the rip on his sleeve.

'Gray leaves, and you give me the keys.' Conor's finger remained steadily in place. 'Refuse me again, and I'll choose which one of your dearest-'

Baldwin's answer was motion. Fast. Before Conor could finish his threat.

Spellfire ignited the air.

The office was split with furious, violent waves of Baldwin's magic. It was immediately met with Conor's delicate, slippery skill.

Magic collided.

The remaining jagged glass in the windows shattered. Splinters and dust whirled. Books whipped from the shelves, from the fallen debris. Their pages tore loose in a cyclone of wind and fire.

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Gray dropped to the ground, pressing his face into the carpet.

The air above him was filled was cascading words. Spells. Curses. Shuddering cracks. Gray's ears rang. A wall crumbled. Plaster shattered loose from the walls. A section of marble gave way with a deafening crunch.

Dust rained over Gray's head. He didn't dare look up.

Gray belly crawled forward until he could touch Sorena's limp hand. Clasping hold, he tugged her, inch by desperate inch, back. Away from where she'd be trampled or she'd fall prey to a stray spell or falling wall. From his peripheral, Gray saw a group with Codder and Pickering, as though a wavering mirage, trying to revive Killian.

But, Killian was weakened. He'd been so injured from his last fight with Conor, and he had a head wound that Gray'd seen men die of, in the tournament ring in Krydon.

The floor heaved under Gray's elbows.

Heat roared past his ear, searing the carpet. The smell of burned cloth and wool hit the back of his throat. Gray got a glimpse of darkness, lashing out from Baldwin's fingers, and Conor pushing it back with a shouted word, a deft movement of his hand.

Gray felt the hit of the memory a split second before he saw it in vivid colour.

He could feel the sliding skill of Conor in his mind, he could feel the resurfacing of that same memory from the barracks, and he curled his fingers into the carpet, and tightened his grip around Sorena's wrist, refusing to let go, and trying to push Conor out of his mind, he could do it, he could -

Gray was five and curled in a cramped ball in the tiny hollow under the three stairs that lead to the kitchen. Conor peered in, face full of concern as he opened his mouth to speak-

Gray mentally scrambled, flailed, curling his fingers harder into the carpet, holding onto Sorena tigher, trying to free his mind.

Only to be hit by another memory. And another. It was as though Conor was rifling through the deepest parts of Gray's mind, searching.

Father's hands were on his, warm and large and sure, paitently guiding Gray's fingers on his flute, teaching him the song of the Seven Ravens.

Mother, mother, singing a lilting lullaby in his Hobbtown bedroom. She rubbed his back as he fell asleep, her hands gently tracing the old X on Gray's wrist.

Grandmother reading him an old book, a handwritten heirloom, Jack and the Djinn. 'Djinn aren't born. They just are, and always have been. But, Jack didn't know this, and he wouldn't have cared if he did. He had listened to the town fool say djinn were created from a ritual of seven from the Ancients …'

Gray mentally shoved back. But, it was a tidal wave of a shove. The power still surging through him from the Modig amulet, still running rampant over his damaged internal walls and sheilds, made Gray horribly strong and clumsy.

And, suddenly, Gray was lost.

Blinded.

Because Conor was everywhere. The cool delicateness of Conor's magic was all Gray could sense. There were images, colours, and sensations flickering past Gray, like watching a too-fast puppet show.

A young Conor stood rigidly in front of Krupin, as Wilde paced back and forth, growling, 'Why can't we track him, little Griffin? Don't tell me he's dead, don't lie to me again.'

An even younger Conor peering out the high window in his small bedroom, scanning night the sky for any incoming griffins, help would be coming, surely-

Younger still, Conor frowning, his head held in his hands, trying to train his thoughts to loyalty, because Wilde could always tell when his mind fell into thoughts of running away. He'd seen the mind-binding process on the other apprentice, and he did not want-

Gray was sure he was in Conor's memories. In his mind. He tried to wrench himself out. Away. But, he didn't know how, everything was happening at the speed of light, he didn't know what the hell he was doing-

Conor was very small, and he stood, his chest heaving and his dark hair hanging in his eyes, at the end of a long formal table. Cold twilight light crept through the high windows. It cast the scrubbed stone floor and carved timber walls in a blueish hue. Krupin sat, lounging, in the chair at the far end, his two fingers pressed against his temple, and hair long enough to drag over the chair and onto the stone ground. He listened intently to an exhausted and injured Wilde, his gaze straying over to Conor. Gods, Conor didn't even know how he'd gotten there, terror was racing through him, he was still wearing his ruined clothes from Hobbtown.

Wilde, paced, devastated. 'The sword was stolen right out of my grasp by a northerner, and I couldn't stop it, and I'm sure - I am sure - Longwark was behind this-'

'I don't want to hear your opinion on this again,' said Krupin sharply.

Gray needed to get the hell out.

He was in danger of panicking.

But, he didn't know how, everything was moving too fast, he couldn't grasp anything, process anything, he didn't know-

Conor sitting at a table with a blur of other apprentices, bending low over his studies, to avoid Wilde's attention, and, gods, Krupin was also coming to inspect their work-

Conor lined up with the other apprentices, shoulder-to-shoulder, watching as they were ranked for their performance, and Conor was at the top, he was always at the top, he was unbeatable-

Conor falling to his knees in the privacy of his small room, avoiding the sunlight streaming in through his high window, unable to bear the awful sting of Wilde's displeasure. It was debilitating, that he'd failed Wilde so, to infiltrate Longwark's rebel group. Conor couldn't stand to be in his own body, couldn't bear that he'd failed-

Conor pressing his ear to the polished door as Wilde and Krupin spoke in the main hall. They were meeting with one of the bounty hunters who'd been in Sirentown, their voices muffled, but he was certain he'd heard his name-

Conor standing stiffly behind Wilde's highbacked chair, training his gaze to the far side of the long hall, as the strange northern woman spoke warily, softly, reluctantly, handing over the terrifying fey. The fey was injured, and who the hell could injure a fey, so-

Conor following the fey through the forest, his gaze catching on the iron around the fey's wrist. The fey had nothing to lose at this point, and Conor might be able to pursuade him that they could help each other, away from Krupin, away from Wilde and Othoa and Lismere, but he'd have to be careful-

In the fight, in the king's office, Conor faltered.

Gray was kicked out of Conor's mind like a drunk thrown out of the tavern by a bruiser.

Thick carpet pressed against Gray's skin, his body. He was wrenched back to the physical pain from the blast and Lunn, and the after-effects of the Modig amulet racing through his blood. His trembling hand clutched around Sorena's wrist.

Heart pounding.

His mind wrung out.

Wiping his face with his sleeve. Trying to breathe.

There was a lightning fast shift in the room. Baldwin was winning. He was edging Conor back. Cornering him. The soldiers were regrouping. A mage flung an acidic-hot spell through the air, forcing Conor to physically dodge. Jessica hurled a knife, and Conor barely got his magic up in time to pause it, inches from his face. He was under an unbroken storm of blades and magic, and he was a heartbeat from breaking.

He was mad about this.

His face flushed furious red in his cheeks. Sweat dripped down his face. His clothes clung to him.

There was a moment, a settling of Conor's features into something horribly resolved, and a deepening of his breath, where Gray could see that Conor was pushing deeper into his reserve of magic.

He set his jaw.

Lifted his fingers.

The slam of Conor's magic against Baldwin's vibrated the whole building. Marble crunched. Walls creaked. Gray was sure they would've felt it in Othoa, in Foix, hell Wingland.

With the same force, Conor barged back into Gray's mind. Gone was the slippery skill. This was someone who elbowing and shoving aside whoever and whatever, to find what he needed.

Gray was seeing flashes of viscerally vivid memories, of things he wanted to keep buried. Startlingly clear and filled with such detail that Gray felt like he'd dove back in time and was really five again, and curled back into that cramped ball in the dark space under the stairs.

He was still and in the blackest shadow.

Silence fell over the ruined home.

The Dark Sorcerer's footsteps neared.

'Are we playing?' the Dark Sorcerer called. Softly. Barely a whisper. 'Is this hide and seek?'

He kicked aside Gray's uncle's fallen horn. He crunched on the shattered diamond-glinting clay from one of their dragons-breath glazed vases. He flung open every cupboard door still intact. He wrenched down every painting and tapestry clinging to the remaining house walls.

'You have something I need,' said the Dark Sorcerer.

Slowly, in front of Gray, he crouched.

Gray's heartbeat fluttered in his ears.

The Dark Sorcerer was blanketed in white dust. It was stuck in the stubble on his cheeks and covered his leather boots and pooled in the hollows above his cheekbones. It made his hair paler than the hares Gray's old dog caught during the snows of winter.

The Dark Sorcerer swept his gaze over Gray the same way he'd looked at the broken glass in the windows and the crumbled stones from the walls.

Unimportant. Insignificant. Nothing.

Whatever he was looking for, he didn't see it.

His gaze fell onto the trail of smears on the dusty floor. Conor's footprints.

The Dark Sorcerer stood with a groan. Unselfconscious. Exhasuted.

Then … then he turned on his heel and walked away. Following Conor's footprints out.

And Gray just watched him leave. Gray had no visicous or boiling thoughts of vengence, he didn't stop him from going after Conor, he didn't seize the opportunity to sink a blade in his turned back. He only had frozen fear and confusion, silent words in his head - the last words Conor had spoken to him - hide, hide, hide. Hide, because the Dark Sorcerer believes a ritual of seven will create a djinn, and for that, he needs the blood of a fated chosen one.

Ash clung to Gray's eyelashes.

Magic still raged over his head.

His hand slipped off Sorena's wrist. Confused. Angry, too, but mostly just damn confused - had Wilde killed over this, murdered Gray's entire family? Was this all some old, superstitious children's fairytale of a ritual, thinking he could create a djinn, marking seven people with his X because they fit the criteria - and then he just ignored Gray, and went after Conor. Even though Gray had that damn X on his wrist-

He dug his sweaty fingertips hard into the carpet, choking on the acrid burn in the air. Heaved. He rammed a hundred mental shields back in place.

Gray wrenched his mind away. Before the fury building and lapping within him could get out of control.

Renewing his grip on Sorena's wrist, he kept tugging her back, back, back. Towards the door. They - she - needed to leave, he wasn't going to let Conor kill-

Sorena was blinking. The dragging of her against the thick carpet seemed to be ushering her awake, or maybe the colossal sound of the fight was, and she was blinking her cold hazel eyes, trying to clear them of dust, she was coughing-

Conor reached down and grabbed Sorena.

Her robes slipped through Gray's trembling and sweaty fingertips.

Gray had half a second to see Baldwin slumped against the floor, fingers curled into the carpet - Baldwin, bloodied, down, defeated, like all the soldiers and fighters and mages, gods, Conor had won - before Conor held two long fingers against Sorena's forehead, right in the space between her eyes.

His hand twisted in the front of her robes, holding her fast.

'The crown prince,' said Conor. 'The heirs. Where are they?'

Sorena was blinking, her beautiful face was settling into hard hatred, her prickling magic was surging.

Conor snarled at Sorena - a awful, dangerous snarl. 'I just saw it in your father's mind. Your brothers have the keys. Where are they?'

'You think,' said Sorena, every word cold, furious, 'they would let the crown prince, the heirs, live anywhere near here, after the D'Oncray massacre? After the rebel assassinations?'

Very carefully, Gray got his hands and feet underneath him, ready to stand.

'You'll never find them,' said Sorena. 'They'll never give you the keys. You can take over here. Wilde can take this palace, this land, and he'll still never get into those vaults.'

'He will,' said Conor.

Sorena tilted her chin. 'Not easily. It'll take him years. He's going to be so displeased with you, sorcerer.'

There was a deadly shift in Conor's expression.

'Hey.' Gray staggered upright.

Conor's grey gaze landed on Gray. 'Why are you still here?'

Gray stepped between them. His hand was on Conor's sweatsoaked chest. 'Let's take a second to breathe-'

'Leave,' snarled Conor.

'OK,' said Gray. 'OK. Yes. I'll take everyone still alive. And leave.'

There was the slightest movement behind Gray. Sorena was adjusting her stance.

A ragged breath from one of the fallen, and a twitch from one of the brutally injured. A cut-off groan.

Conor let out the smallest breath. 'No. Go.'

'I'll go,' said Gray. 'I'll go. I understand you, OK? I'll go, I'll hide, I'll do whatever you want.'

Because that must be what Conor was so desperate to tell him, it must be, it was the only thin he could make head or tails of, from what Conor was brought forth in his mind.

Conor's breath was rapid and shallow. His lips were pale. He was trembling, head to toe. He reminded - he reminded Gray of how Branbright had looked, back in Krydon, after the battle with the mountain griffin.

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