Page 36 of Awakened Ash and Alchemy

“Which would weaken Katarra’s collective power?” Bellus murmured by the open doorway to the Hidden Hall of Histories. The historian’s voice was calm as he adjusted his round-rimmed glasses. “We know the rebirthing of Black Cloaks drains him.”

Gellar nodded slowly. “And so they attacked in numbers to regain strength.”

“And for revenge, we can assume.” It’s what Martar would do if in their place—and what he would happily return tenfold if they didn’t find Zarek soon.

They’d been searching all night. The entire Vanguard had spilled into the mortal realm, but no one could sense him anywhere.

It bothered him. He’d stood at Zarek’s side for centuries—his field commander, captain, and friend since they were children. Paired together before they’d ever lifted a blade, they’d been trained to balance one another long before they understood why. He was the ice to Zarek’s fire.

Zarek was the leader. Always had been. And Martar always followed without question because they had each other’s backs.

It wasn’t like Zarek to vanish without a trace.

“Only this time they brought the Poison Blade onto the battlefield.” Gellar nodded at the black blade sealed inside a heavily warded glass box that lay in the middle of their table. All of them were fully aware of how deadly it was to their kind.

“Why use it in battle when they also risk themselves?” Bellus said. “The blade steals power from any who wields it for too long. Which leads to the logical conclusion as to why we haven’t found Zarek yet, is that it has stolen the Captain’s power.”

Gellar’s gaze shifted to Martar. “Tell me how Zarek was singled out.”

“We were battling inside the warehouse…” Martar sat forward, scrubbing rough hands over his face, while his mind replayed the same situation he’d been churning over for hours. “They kept coming. Feeding on mortals, street children. Using them to rebuild their numbers.”

Condorr swore softly, shifting his bulky frame as the chair creaked beneath him.

“Two broke free,” Martar continued. “Zarek followed. I saw him turn one into ashes. Then he vanished after the second.”

Martar swallowed. “We felt it. All of us. The wound.” His hands clenched into fists that rested on his leathered thighs. “And then… nothing. I couldn’t sense him again.”

“Again? Has this happened before, not being able to sense him?” Gellar’s brow creased as the others listened.

“A few times,” Martar admitted with a shrug. “Only briefly. And always in the mortal realm. Zarek never stays gone for long. He always reappears.”

“But this time is different,” Gellar said quietly.

“Yes.” Martar didn’t hesitate. “We know he was wounded.”

Zarek wounded meant more than blood on the ground. The absence of his command was felt. It meant his fire had been dimmed enough for others to reach him—and the Black Cloaks would know exactly what that meant.

Martar’s jaw tightened as the realization took hold. Zarek had warned them before when the Poison Blade made their way onto the battlefields: The Poison Blade is dangerous, even to those who wield it. They’d never bring it into the mortal realm without a purpose. Not unless the risk was worth the cost.

Had that been the plan all along?

Strike Zarek, or one of the Vanguard, to weaken and take them alive.

Martar’s jaw tightened; his teeth threatening to crack under the pressure.

Zarek carried centuries of knowledge of their wards, that were the threshold sigils; he knew the fragile measures that kept Paradox’s realm sealed against all of Katarra’s advances. Secrets learned only through command and by those within the Sworn Exarchs.

The only problem was that no one knew where Katarra hid. He wasn’t in any realm they could reach, and even with their combined magicks, Katarra’s domain was cloaked so deeply it might as well have been part of the underworld itself.

If Zarek had fallen into the bony hands of the Black Cloaks, they would carve those answers from their captain, his friend, piece by piece. It truly terrified Martar.

There was a knock. “It is the Seer,” called out the aged female voice.

“Open,” Gellar commanded from the end of the table.

The double doors opened only because the ancestors allowed it.

The Seer entered just a step inside the threshold but could not come any closer. The room’s walls seemed to lengthen instinctively, while silence fell like it was holding its breath.