He stopped counting the number of times he read over the final passage in the stolen pages. The land that floated underfoot felt as if it had suddenly plummeted into the void below, twisting as he and it spiraled out of control.

  To most, the King’s Rightmaker was nothing more than a boogie man, a tale whispered to misbehaving children so they would mind their manners. With the wisdom of age, it was often forgotten, only to resurface in rumors or conspiracies surrounding mysterious deaths. It was a name that droned under the music celebrating most parades of death when accident, age, or illness weren’t the obvious culprits.

  In certain clandestine circles, it was a title revered as much as feared. For the assassin, the King’s Rightmaker was a mantle only the exceptional few over the generations of the Halthome would ever reach. Few had met the aberration and lived to tell the tale. For the noble, his was a scourge, a promise of retribution should their grumblings of discontent become too vehement, or stray too far toward defiance. He’d heard the cautious whispers, almost as if uttering the name would bring the silent blades and death upon the speaker.

  Never had he heard a name connected with the title.

  That not only a name, but his name was written on the parchment.

  Risens was not one who often succumbed to panic, but now, his being was overtaken by it.

  He was not the first to bear the name. Was he somehow tied to the fate of the devastation of Hazelglen? He was certain he would have been far too young to have participated in its destruction.

  Risens sifted his mind for any recollections of such violence in his youth. As a natural defense mechanism, he’d taught himself to tamp down the most potent, emotional memories. The swiftest, most pained beatings were hidden beneath layers of mental scarring. He’d seen and done enough killing to have desensitized himself to the carnage, knowing one day he would take his place among the eternal fires of Pylkev. He could find no traces of life beyond endless training and killing.

  Risens folded the parchment, his fingers quivering as they slid it into the pages of the Raven’s Guide. Questions filled his head, far more than he could begin to ponder the answers to. He was a killer and a spy. He was accustomed to finding information, people, and items that others desired to keep secret. The quest he assigned himself would likely be the most challenging yet. He wasn’t too proud to acknowledge that a measure of his rise to Rightmaker was a result of the vast connections he, or more appropriately, the kingdom, maintained. These typical sources, the castle library and the scholars who guarded the wealth of information contained within their walls and vaults, would be of no use.

  Adalhard’s Bank of Tomes was a grand repository of information, though he dared not return there. Security would undoubtedly be heightened after his reckless previous visit. Beyond that, whether they answered to any combination of the Dreamcatchers, the crown, or The Hunt, the assassins who stalked him through the shadows of the city knew of the windSteps in the adjacent building. If his passage through the hedge maze and presence at one of the ill-utilized vendors scattered throughout Windwake was known, the area was too great a risk to venture in light of the present circumstances.

  Perhaps the files concealed within the Gilded Cage held more clues? None would have been able to access the vault. Only he knew the codewords and possessed the tonality to accomplish the task.

  And it was a task he was prepared to undertake. The grounds would be swarming with the most loyal of the King’s soldiers. They would be the Kingdom’s experts, the investigative team, and those best suited for cleaning up the most inconvenient of messes. Many would likely meet death by his blades. Collateral damage was something he tried to avoid when at all possible, yet at the moment, he cared little for the concerns of propriety. He would visit upon them the death that he’d been sentenced.

  He didn’t relish the duty of whatever commander oversaw the process. By no decision of their own, they had been forced into a hopeless position. If they survived his blades, they would face the vengeful wrath of the King as the empty reports and their continued lack of progress reached his anxious ears.

  Risens sighed and rose. It seemed that even with days to delay before his report, his tasks now vied with each other, pushing their individual importance and priority above the next in line.

  He re-entered the house, scanning the room and averting his focus from the present thoughts that threatened to consume him. This was a canvas for him to create, a stone for him to carve. The Under would feel the sting of the newly charged blades. First, however, he had more to learn from the Roost.

  Stuffing the Raven’s Guide back into the concealed pocket within the folds of his cloak, he crossed the chamber. His tangent, leading directly to the door to the Roost, paused abruptly at the edge of the round bowl in the middle of the room. The feather, deposited when Mother Raven used the Dull Wind, was balanced precariously, as if positioned by steady hands. He pocketed the offering before moving to the solid, heavy stone panel.

  Like the doorway that granted him access to the Under, the carved panel to the Roost slid quietly into the wall with a wave of his hand, presenting a view of the wavering black void of the portal. The crushing pressure and unbearable cold passed in a flash, leaving little lingering disorientation, as he again opened his eyes to a view of the lofty, hallowed halls. Though little time had passed since he’d last explored the secrets of the hall, it felt as if he’d been absent for ages.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  He reveled in the sight of the grand hall. The first floor was well known to him, though many of the doors’ secrets remained unrevealed. Above, the power that lingered just out of his reach was enticing, luring him forward, though it felt different this visit. Tendrils of power, invisible, yet clear to his senses, pulled up from the hairline cracks in the mortar, snaking into the air like tiny trails of smoke. He shifted his hand, letting it cut the line, noting the slight tingle as his skin passed through. It was the essence that the magi required to produce their seemingly impossible feats.

  Risens understood it now for what it truly was. Here in the Roost, like the Barren, it was everywhere, yet in places, it bubbled through the gaps like springs through rock. As was her norm, Mother Raven had left him with a development that challenged the very foundation of his existence, then departed without fully explaining his skills or what was required of him. It seemed trial and error would again be the proper course forward.

  He nodded to the silent stone ravens as he paced the alley to the shrine of the raven that loomed at the edge of the darkness beyond. Their judgmental stares seemed muted compared to normal.

  Finding his pack and supplies, expectedly undisturbed, he took a bite of the dried meat he’d stored, working through the chewy, salted stick while he contemplated his next step. He’d solved the trials in four of the sealed doors, leaving still more than half the first floor unexplored. Tilting his head backward, he scanned the darkened openings on the upper levels of the room. Could each of them contain another door to enter, another power to achieve? The possibilities were far too extensive to fathom. He knew that power to control the Dull Wind lurked behind one, though the others were a mystery.

  Risens shook his head as he settled again on the time-honored tradition of simply guessing. Grabbing one of the candles from his pack, he carefully carried the flame to the door in the left corner of the room. The shadows sloughed off as soon as the flame’s light breached the darkness, and the panel that revealed itself matched the form of the others, while the features etched into its face were, unsurprisingly, unique. He carefully ran his fingers over the designs, searching for any false panels or disguised key holes. Finding none, he took a step back to absorb the whole picture once more.

  The door’s face was covered with a variety of swirls and loops of varying shapes and sizes. Viewing the panel from afar, he noticed that several of the designs were cut off at awkward angles by the door’s edges. On one side, they came to an abrupt end, while on the other, they sprouted half-formed from beneath the stone.

  Along either edge, near the middle of the panel, the only angular feature stood out from the rounded designs. Each was roughly the size of his hand, forming a rectangle along both sides. Just like several of the swirls, it appeared as if it were one single square that had been crudely spliced in half by the door’s frame, each bounded by a similarly bisected whirl.

  The designs of the prior doors he’d completed were dominated by a central focal point where the key, whether it be the stem of the feather or barbs, had played a crucial role in unlocking the challenge within. What he would have considered to be the point of attention on this had been divided, the two halves split nearly down the middle.

  As he looked closer, he noted the discrepancy in the swirling patterns that he’d missed on his previous observation. The images were not abstract, but peculiar continuations of the designs, as if, at one point, they were sketched across a sheet of canvas rolled into a scroll before being slashed in two.

  Risens absently traced the motion of the whirl within the rectangle on the right with the tip of his finger. His inadvertent, gentle pressure on the raised stone produced a dramatic result as the shape shifted slightly under his touch—no more thana fraction of an inch, but the movement was clear as the design rotated slowly. Where the definitive lines of the swirling pattern butted against the panel of the door, they disappeared as if the remainder of the design had been hidden behind the stone.

  Intrigued, he pushed again, carefully increasing the speed of his hand’s rotation. Making a full turn, the pattern snapped to a stop with an abrupt, jarring finality. A distant click, both hollow and booming, sounded through the hall. With the flapping of wings, a stone raven extinguished the candles floating in their small pool before taking to flight.

  He gritted his teeth as his failure became apparent. After a few beats, Risens let the breath he held in slip through his lips. This test, it seemed, was thankfully devoid of the anticipated agony often associated with his ineptitude.

  He was certain that rotating the design was a key to solving the puzzle, though he had clearly overlooked something in the process. The original direction had propelled the door in the direction that an unseen wind seemed to pull across the stone. Pushing against the pattern within the opposite angular border, it rotated with the same apparent ease, the other way. Making a complete rotation, it, too, stopped as his feeble attempt to solve the cipher failed for the second time.

  Another stone raven departed the chamber. He could feel the contemptuous glares of the remaining birds as they directed their mounting ire toward him.

  Gritting his teeth in frustration, he attempted the feat for the third time. Using both hands, he spun both designs simultaneously. Hope swelled as each rotated beyond a single revolution. As quickly as it came, that hope was dashed byanother hollow thump. Yet another stone raven extinguished its candles as it flapped into the darkness above.

  Though the failure ate away at him, Risens was thankful that failing this test was surprisingly pain-free. Even so, what little comfort the thought imparted was short-lived. Upon his success, he expected that what would await him would likely make up for his momentary succor. On the previous doors, tracing the runes incorrectly with his finger or even his blade had both proven agonizing. Considering past trials, there was a distinct commonality: he’d failed to give proper attention.

  The feather.

  He pulled the delicate offering Mother Raven had left behind during her last movement from his pocket. Twisting it carefully between his fingers, he studied the subtle reflection of the candle-lit pedestals glinting along the shiny feather. So far, he’d used it as a key to unlock the door, a quill to paint the rune, and finally as a dagger to pierce the solid stone. He was certain it had a purpose, yet it currently eluded him.

  How would a feather help him rotate the designs?

  Frowning at the puzzle, he slapped the long, black feather against the palm of his opposite hand as he pondered the possibilities. The gentle breeze of his action, nothing more than a slight breath of air, reached the door.

  Had he not been staring at the stone, he’d likely have missed the barely perceptible movement. The designs shifted slightly, following the waft of the feather against his hand.

  He grinned as the solution came to light.