The Citadel of Angeles burned behind Farren like a dying star.
Its marble spires, once laced with gold-leaf sigils that drank sunlight and sang protection, now dripped molten glass. The sky above the ruins was the color of bruised copper, streaked with violet auroras that had not existed before the Rift.
Farren knelt in the scorched garden where his father's body had cooled. General Arcturus Vale's breastplate was split open like a cracked walnut; inside, the fused heart of the great condor that had been his bond-spirit lay shriveled, feathers singed to black wire.
Farren's own bond, a lean desert lynx named Sable, pressed against his ribs—half spirit, half flesh, purring thunder through both their chests. The fusion had happened at fourteen, the night the Rift tore open and magic bled into the world. Sable's night-gold eyes reflected the fire; Farren's own irises had turned the same molten hue.
He pried his father's signet from a stiff finger. The ring's stone—an opal that once held a sliver of Arcturus's condor soul—cracked the moment Farren touched it. A final message hissed out in his father's voice:
"Cherina lives. They took her east, toward the Salt Cathedral. Trust no banner that flies the serpent-coil."
East meant the Wastes. East meant the Iron Choir, the cult that preached fusion not as partnership but as domination—human devouring beast, beast devouring human, until only hunger remained.
Farren slid the broken ring onto a leather cord around his neck. His saber, Moonfang, whispered from its sheath; the blade had been quenched in lynx blood the day he and Sable first merged. His revolver, a six-shot relic from the Old World, hung heavy at his hip, each chamber loaded with silver-jacketed rounds etched with binding runes.
A shadow fell across the garden. Captain Lysa—once his father's lieutenant—stood flanked by two palace guards whose bond-badges showed wolf and raven. Their eyes were wet, but their hands rested on sword hilts.
"The Council declares martial law," Lysa said. "You are to surrender your weapons and remain in the Citadel until the succession is settled."
Farren rose. Sable's tail lashed; the air around them shimmered with heat mirage.
"Succession?" His voice cracked like a whip. "My sister is a hostage and my father's corpse is still warm."
"The Council fears civil war," Lysa whispered. "They will name you traitor if you leave."
Farren's laugh was the sound of steel dragged across stone. "Then let them name me."
He moved. Sable flowed with him, muscle and instinct braided. Moonfang flashed; the wolf-guard's blade shattered. The raven-guard loosed an arrow that Sable caught in his teeth and snapped like kindling. Farren's revolver spoke once—crack—and the round carved a binding sigil in the air that pinned Lysa's boots to the flagstones.
"Tell the Council," Farren said, holstering the gun, "the Kingdom ends where my sister's trail begins."
He vaulted the garden wall. Sable's claws found purchase on air itself; they sprinted across the night sky on threads of lynx-magic, leaving the burning Citadel behind