Book One – Chapter 17

“Esteemed guards,” she began, her voice low and thin, lacing itself into the frozen air. “I promise to —”

“Do not speak!” Imbiad’s command tore through the tension. The words struck like a physical blow; an invisible force that slammed into Yu and threw him to the ground, his bones thrumming and his ears ringing with the impact. Clawing at the platform, he struggled to rise, talons scraping against the ice-slick surface. He did, but it was not over. Imbiad’s presence had swelled, suffocating and primal, like the raw fury of an ocean storm coiled into wizard form. The air vibrated with horror and malevolence, with the tension of thunder contained and compressed to the point of bursting.

Yu’s heartbeats were brought to heel, flayed to race the trembling rhythm. His chest tightened. Each breath clawed at his lungs, sharp and metallic, as if the wizard’s rage had leeched the life from the darkness itself. It drove him to his knees again.

Like him, the beastkin dropped to all fours. In one moment, he threw off his backpack, in the next, he crouched with his spine arched and his ears flattened, eyes wide, pupils blown, claws extended, tail erect. A hiss broke from his throat, angry and primal. Beside him, the borman bellowed, a deep, guttural roar of challenge and alarm. The witch jerked back two paces, her free hand yanking towards the dark, reinforced lantern thing —

“Excuse us!” the ker shouted, cutting through the chaos. “These are instinctual reactions! We do not mean to offend!”

He had not moved, not even flinched. That calm seemed to bleed into the others, anchoring them in place. The borman shifted and secured his hold on the two bundled figures, pressing them higher against his chest. They hung as lifeless as before, swaddled beyond recognition. If they breathed at all, no mist rose from their covered faces, unlike the thick plumes from the borman and beastkin. The beastkin, breathing hard, forced himself upright. His claws retracted and his tail lowered. With a sharp shake, he shed the snow from his coat, then bent to retrieve his pack. He did not strap it on but left it upright at his feet. His movements remained taut, his posture wary, anxious.

Imbiad did not lower his hands. His voice cut through the frozen air again, low and deliberate, not a threat but a blade against the witch’s throat. “Do not speak again, witch.”