Wil threw open his shutters at dawn, and one of the king’s messenger birds hopped on the windowsill. The crow flapped its wings, trained to get Wil’s attention with visual cues instead of noises, and he spotted the red ribbon tied to its leg. He raised his eyes, and a red flag was flying at the palace. Trouble. Panic flared in him, and he hurried to pull on his clothes. He left his flat still pulling his jacket onto his shoulders.

The guards throughout the city of Ennore ran along the streets toward the palace. They hollered to each other but Wil couldn’t hear them. The red flag was his only indication of trouble.

He sprinted a few steps and vaulted up a stone wall to grab onto the edge of a tiled roofline. He pulled himself up and ran along the roofs toward the palace, taking a faster route than the guards on the ground.

When Wil lowered himself down to the street, the palace was in disarray. A guard directed Wil down to the crypts, and he descended the stairs into the dark tunnel.

The king strode toward Wil as soon as he rounded the corner near the vault. The older man walked with a cane, leaning heavily on it as he limped. The king scowled. His face was severely lined, with deep creases between his brows and on either side of his mouth from years of scowling, his beard trimmed and hair streaked with silver.

Four men lay dead in the hall before the silver doors, all wearing the livery of the royal guard. One had his throat slit, another a stab wound in his chest. The third had a broken neck, and the fourth was missing a hand, his lips blue and eyes red with burst blood vessels. The boy was no older than sixteen, likely a private or cadet in the guards’ ranks.

What happened? Wil signed.

“What does it look like?” Lysander said.

Wil frowned. The Solis?

Lysander gritted his teeth, wearing an expression that Wil had never seen before. It was unbridled rage, the kind that struck fear into his gut when he was a boy. “It’s gone.”

Wil ran his hands through his hair. Shit. Shit. Anger made his face warm, but his gut roiled.

“How could you have been so godsdamn stupid?” Lysander snarled.

Even though he couldn’t hear them, Wil recoiled at the king’s words. Despite the sick feeling in his stomach, he glared at his father. Are you blaming me for all of this? he signed, his movements sharp.

“Yes, I am,” Lysander snapped. “You were supposed to catch the bitch.”

I tried!

“Not hard enough!” The king clutched his cane in his white-knuckled hands, looking ready to throw it at Wil. He stepped closer to Wil. “I ordered you to capture that witch and you failed.”

Wil’s mouth pressed into a hard line, his jaw clenching. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. I’m sorry, Father, but—

“For the final time, I want her found. Dead or alive,” the king said. “If you cannot manage it, I will find myself a witch hunter who can.”

“Absolutely not,” Dixon said with a hasty shake of his head.

Dixon, please, Wil signed. You’re the only one that can possibly track her down.

“Are ye daft, mate? Ye saw what she did to the barracks and in the fort,” Dixon replied. “The woman’d sooner slice yer head off than talk to ye.”

That’s a risk I have to take to get the Solis back, Wil signed, scowling.

“Well, it’s not a risk I’ll be takin,’” Dixon said. “Who says she’d even obey the rules of parley anyway?”

She may not, but I have to try. There’s got to be something she wants in exchange.

“What, in exchange for an Artifact? Sure, that’ll go well.” Dixon said. He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “Gods, ye’ve lost yer mind.”

Wil crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at his friend. Dixon was right. The Solis was one of the seven most powerful items in the world—what could he possibly offer to trade for it?

But what else could he do? A parley was the only way he could think of to get close to the Ghost without her trying to kill him. If, of course, she obeyed the rules of the meeting: no weapons, including magic. She had already thwarted him once, and completely evaded him twice more. Wil couldn’t know if she’d pull another trick, let alone if she’d even be found.

I’ve got to do something, Wil signed, finally uncrossing his arms. Let her name her price. But I can’t find her alone.

Dixon only stared at Wil, his frown forming creases on either side of his mouth.

Nor can I easily speak to her without an interpreter, Wil added. Please, Dixon. A hundred lashes.

“Really?” Dixon asked. “Yer callin’ a hundred lashes now?”

Wil nodded, holding his chin high. The hundred lashes was an oath they’d made to each other during their time at the Venandi’s keep: to have each other’s backs no matter what, to trust each other’s instincts, despite the risk of the beating they’d receive from the Masters if they disobeyed or failed a mission: a hundred lashes for each of them. They wouldn’t suffer bloodied backs for it now, but invoking a hundred lashes was still an oath Wil knew Dixon would not be able to break. It might have been the worst idea Wil had ever had, but he needed his friend to trust him implicitly, no questions asked.

Dixon groaned, shaking his head. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Ach, fine,” he muttered. “A hundred lashes. I’m with ye.”

Thank you, Dixon.

“Dinnae thank me yet, ye big lug,” he said. “Let me listen to my wee birds and see if I can find her first. Then we’ll call yer parley.”