Falchia sprinted through the forest.

The battle cries and screams of pain around him weren't what terrified him most; it was the thought of being captured.

He stumbled.

Glancing back, he hoped to spot the others, but they were gone. Three Elf-Human hybrids, separated from one another in the chaos of the escape. They had planned to stay together, but their breakout had led them straight into a clash between the Winged and the Elves, splintering the group.

If even one of them escaped and disappeared for good, the others would be safe. The power sealed inside them couldn't be wielded without all three parts united.

Pushing himself away from the fray, he dodged the worst of the fighting. He leaped over lifeless bodies strewn across the ground—casualties of the battle raging between Aterion's Winged and Vetrel's Elves.

“Falchia!”

His heart thudded violently. He called on every scrap of Elven agility he possessed and pushed his legs harder than they could bear.

A Winged warrior dropped out of the sky right in front of him. Perhaps he'd mistaken Falchia for a pure-blooded Elf, or maybe the creature was simply bloodthirsty enough to slaughter whatever crossed its path. The gray-skinned giant roared in full bestial form, lunging forward with raking claws in a lethal strike meant to end him.

Unarmed, Falchia could only freeze and brace for the blow. His wide lilac eyes reflected the pure terror of having come this far, only to die at the hands of a creature that wasn't even his enemy.

Then the scent of magic hit the air.

The Winged warrior bellowed, clutching his broad chest where a black aura pulsed directly over his heart.

Falchia looked back.

The Lord was approaching with purposeful strides. His green eyes blazed with fury aimed squarely at the creature, and his outstretched hand bent the magic to his will. The Winged warrior fought to push through the pain, but the sorcerer closed his fist as though crushing rotten fruit. The strangled scream cut off abruptly, and the Winged warrior—his heart bursting from within—hit the ground with a hollow thud.

“Don't run anymore,” the Lord said as he drew near, the fury bleeding out of his expression.

Hot tears flooded Falchia's eyes. Out of breath, his legs failing beneath him, he pressed his back against a tree and sank to the ground.

The Lord was no older than eighteen, yet he was already a black-affinity sorcerer—and the one responsible for imprisoning Falchia and the other two hybrids.

“Why would you do something this reckless?” The Lord crouched beside him. “I told you I'd make sure you were all safe.”

“You're a liar,” Falchia spat, still gasping. “All you want is to keep what you put inside us and find a use for it in Exclam.”

“You're wrong.” A hand brushed the bangs away from the hybrid's eyes. “I want to help.”

“Shut up,” he hissed, trying to pull away from the pain that such pity caused him. “Taking us to Exclam to be used as vessels is cruel. Why not just kill us and be done with it?”

The pity shifted into something heavier in the sorcerer's green eyes as they drifted toward the small box he carried. From the guilt written plainly across his face, Falchia could see exactly where this was going.

“Ersis and Nyr?” he asked, his chest tightening as he understood what the black box meant. “You found them?”

“They shouldn't have run,” the Lord said, as if it were that simple—as if shifting the blame onto them erased his part in it.

“You shouldn't have used my people for your experiments!”

The pain in the Lord's eyes hardened into resolve. He pressed his palm flat against Falchia's forehead, pinning him against the tree.

First came the smell of magic. Then the tingling.

“What are you doing?” The hybrid shoved at his hand. “No! Stop!”

The Lord was separating the portion of the Scourge housed inside his body.

“If I draw out what's in there now, you'll die,” the sorcerer warned, tightening his grip to keep him from bolting.

With every last drop of resentment eating him alive, Falchia held his gaze.

“Then get it over with.”

“I don't want that.” A sad smile softened the Lord's expression. “But there's no way to contain the Scourge without drawing it out of you.”

Falchia knew there was no saving him, that he would die just like the others. No hybrid had ever survived the extraction; none had even been able to bear the Scourge until he, Ersis, and Nyr had split the burden between them. The gamble of running had cost them everything, and now the tears came—for his friends, and for his own life slipping away.

The red essence, as it was drawn out, drifted toward the dark box. Its glow merged with the energy already inside—the two portions of the Scourge that Ersis and Nyr had carried, collected by the Lord before this moment.

Falchia had expected the extraction to be excruciating, but all he felt was a heavy lethargy, a weakness that pressed down on his eyelids as though he desperately needed to sleep.

The Lord pressed his other hand against his own chest, straining to redirect his flow of magic.

“You think you'll find absolution by making this hurt less?” Falchia asked. At last, he understood why the extraction felt so painless.

“I... I'm sorry, Falchia.” The sorcerer pushed more magic through.

“I d-don't... b-believe you...” the hybrid murmured, feeling the last traces of the Scourge leave him, taking what little remained of his life along with them.