“We don’t get visitors much,” Schal said, tossing a log into the fireplace with a pop of sparks.


    Verac stared into the flames, red hot embers poking out beneath them. The warmth softened his icy skin, the tip of his nose aching and tingling with the urge to sneeze. He lifted the wooden bowl to his mouth, slurping the warm soup inside; corn and regal-meat.


    “Maybe if you stopped killing them,” Verac said, chewing a piece of meat, “more would come.”


    Schal chuckled, turning to him and dusting off his thick hands. “You’re mistaking Claye for Whicalorse.”


    Verac wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaning forward and placing the empty bowl on a table. It was jagged along the edges, a detailed map of the town etched into it and covered with some sort of glass. Or crystal. Hard to tell when everything was so opulent.


    “You share a culture,” Verac said.


    “We share a language.”


    “What’s the difference?”


    Schal raised a brow, dropping into a chair beside with a gruff sigh. He folded his muscular, weather-spotted arms, sleeves rolled to his elbows.


    “You obviously haven’t been there in a while,” he muttered. “What brings you back?”


    Verac blinked, tucking his chin down. What brought him back? The same thing that revives any monster buried and forgotten about. The same thing that saved and damned men equally. The same thing he’d finally started losing a grip on. Hope.


    He gazed into the dancing flames. “I… I’m looking for someone.”


    Schal coughed. “I heard you went to New Eden after your master died.”


    Verac drew a deep breath, fingers clawing into his leather-padded knees. “I did.”


    Schal snorted. “No man leaves New Eden. Not even to be Arqing over the whole world.”


    Verac tucked a hand beneath his cloak, untying a pouch from his belt. Schal leaned forward, eyes widening with a gleam as Verac lifted a single gold coin.


    “Is that…”


    “Edenian gold,” Verac said, flipping the coin to him with a shiny clink. “Some things are worth more than the world.”


    The old man caught the coin against his chest, raising it between two fingers. He turned it side to side, a grin lifting his eyes. “Who in the six corners is worth leaving New Eden for, boy?”


    Verac glared back into the fire. “Someone greater than it.”


    Schal waved a hand. “Bah. No one’s greater than a place like New Eden.”


    Something cold entered Verac’s chest. As if a frigid wind had swept through the gaping hole where his heart once was.


    “When you live for wealth, Innan, I agree,” he said. “When you live for others, nothing can replace them.”


    Schal held the coin up in one hand, the other draped over his armrest. “I hope you don’t mind my keeping this. Things are getting tougher since Kenelm was made Highduke of Whetalon.”


    Verac frowned. “What?”


    “Oh. Right,” Schal said, his hand falling as he stared up at the arched ceiling. “It’s the same story as Whicalorse. Probably the same thing that’s happening in Blacalorse.”


    Verac leaned forward, the white and brown fur blankets on the lounger rustling. “What happened?”


    Schal glanced at him sideways, his nose wrinkling. “Harbinger.”


    The pulsing in Verac’s spine returned. Throbbing like the phantom of an old wound. He tucked his chin down, leaning back in his seat as his heart spiked. A ball of iron grew in his stomach, throat aching as if he’d just swallowed it.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    A Harbinger. Here? This far from the Shadefall?


    “How long has it been there?”


    Schal glanced down, mouth twisting to the side as he frowned. “Not sure. It’s been about two years since I heard about it.”


    Since he heard about it. It could take decades for a Harbinger to be discovered.


    Maybe you and Claye missed it? He thought. Amidst the chaos, the blood and shadow, to miss a monster living underground was only human.


    Verac placed his hands on his face, rubbing them up into his hair. “What’s the Highduke doing?”


    Schal shrugged, opening his palms. “Everything and nothing.”


    “You like your ambiguities, don’t you?” Verac said.


    Schal sighed. “The Arqing delegated oversight of trade to Whetalon, only Regari knows why. So the Highduke took it upon himself to export double the amount of food we used to.”


    Verac dug his fingers into his scalp, the right hand leaving aches beneath its tips. “Why on…” he paused, hands dropping from his head. “What kind of Harbinger is in Whetalon?”


    Schal groaned as he stretched an arm. “I don’t know. I doubt many people see that thing and live to tell about it.”


    Verac tapped his boot against the wood floor, the drum echoing through the massive room. If the Highduke was starving his own people, there was only one answer.


    “It’s a Devourer,” Verac snarled.


    Schal pursed his lips. “Maybe. It makes sense, now that you say it.”


    No. It was the only thing that made sense. He glanced at Schal as he lay back in his seat with eyes closed, gold earrings gleaming in the firelight.


    “You’re an Innan. Why aren’t you doing anything?” Verac said.


    Schal opened an eye. “I’m half the Innan I once was, Verac. My influence over the Cultivators is dwindling. Fast. The younger Innan are more vicious with their tactics. They’re willing to do more and go further to settle trade routes—and even to take their produce outside of Candor. My farmland is a garden compared to theirs, and my crops are nothing more than weeds in the new market. I have fewer Cultivators working my farmland than some Innan have working in their households.”


    Younger Innan. Youth and power were rarely a good combination. Like giving a sword to an ape. All they’d be fixated on was their pockets: how high their homes were built and how many horses were in the stable.


    He glanced around the room. The wood beams wrapped in silk. The curtains braided with gold. The ceiling arching high enough to fit another room above them. The carpets were dyed with some exotic red and purple spices imported from Firecalorse. A storm-wood chandelier hung in the roof’s zenith—the heads of a bull, a lion and an eagle carved out of it, all pointing away from each other, their eyes and gaping mouths holding empty lamps.


    No different from this Innan, I suppose.


    He sighed. If there was no one else to do it, then there was only one thing to be done. That pulsing lingered in his spine, as if something were trying to tear out of it. Verac stood up.


    “Where are you going?” Schal asked, sitting up.


    Verac marched to the double doors, boots thudding with each step. “To Whetalon.”


    Schal grunted. “You just arrived. Take the night and be on your way tomorrow.”


    Verac placed a hand on the doors, the wood laced with intricate metal vines and leaves that glittered in the firelight.


    You can’t leave it alone, that voice said. He closed his eyes, twisting his head to the side. You need me. You need to find this monster, Verac.


    His eyes snapped open, breaths heaving. The doors were wide open, a hole splintering the centre where his hand had just rested. The night shrouded the fields and sprawling grass before him, trees swaying in the distance. A drop of sweat fell from his jaw, his hand shaking as he glanced down at it.


    “You can leave… if you want,” Schal said from behind, his voice trembling.


    Verac clenched his fist, placing it against his mouth. He growled into it, heart racing, breath warming his skin. It happened again. It happened… again.


    He rammed his fist against his forehead, teeth bared.


    What’s wrong with you?


    He rammed it again, and again, saliva spraying as his breaths heaved between clenched teeth.


    What are you? Who are you? What have you done? What have you done!


    His fist dropped, and he glanced up at the night sky. The dark blues painted with the glow of moon and star, clouds streaking in a circle like giant white serpents. The moon, nothing more than a crescent of light carved into the darkness, seemed to peer at him. As if watching him down there. All alone, in the dark.


    Because even the night needs a light in its darkest hour.


    Verac clutched his right hand as it trembled. The metal was hot beneath his glove, which was strange. Normally it was cold as a corpse.


    “I have to go,” he whispered. “This place… these people. I left them with my demons. And they came to find me,” he glanced over his shoulder at Schal as the man raised his hands. “I’m not making that mistake again.”


    Schal swallowed, nodding so fast it was more of a shiver. “Go. Go do what you must, Nightfinder.”


    Verac reached back and pulled his hood over his head. “Tell me one more thing,” he growled, “is the Shrine of Phaos still here?”