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“You,” he hissed, stalking straight for the girl. “Who are you? How do you have that? Explain yourself!”

Pale eyes widened when they met his. The flame in her hand sputtered weakly before going out and taking the ice with it—the Netherflame—the magic he had stripped from the world and then from himself—

Give it to me! Orpheus reached, breath catching in his chest as the last little spark dissolved into nothing before he could fucking touch it—

Pain exploded through the side of his head. Once. Twice. Something massive and heavy collided with his back and sent him to his hands and knees. Orpheus didn’t have a second to breathe before a ringing filled his rattled skull. The world swayed, lurching sickeningly with every throb of pain, a streak of wet heat sliding down his temple to drip from his chin. Trembling fingers lifted to prod at the warm wet skin even though he knew what he would find.

Pain lanced and the ringing intensified, narrowing his vision until all he could see the darkened forest fen, mist curdling at its edges.

And from that mist, figures emerged, cloaked in white like phantoms.

Like ghosts.

Orpheus staggered to his feet.

“Restrain him!” a voice commanded.

Hands grappled him from behind, one fisting in his collar, the other groping for his wrist. With a speed Orpheus didn’t know he possessed, he moved without thinking, dropping low despite the closing grip around his throat, the hand on his wrist slipping as he twisted away and looked up into the face of his attacker and—and—

What in all hells?

“How—” Orpheus gasped out, meeting the golden-hued eyes of a Myrkur.

He had seen drawings of them before, scattered throughout the hermit’s spellbooks. This Myrkur was bigger than the drawings depicted. Muscular where the Myrkur in the books were slender. But the smoky violet skin and gold eyes were undeniable. One of Hell’s own ruling race stood before Orpheus despite every fracture in the world that would have allowed him here sealed away—and he was trying to…to kill him?

“I said restrain him, Duluth!”

Like a dog obeying its master, the Myrkur—Duluth—reached for him again.

Orpheus tripped backwards just in time.

The ground rushed up, impact stealing his breath, but not enough to keep him from moving. He scrambled backwards, kicking dirt up with his heels as he put as much distance between him and the Myrkur as he could. Other figures emerged from the forest, a semi-circle of hunters Orpheus realized with sickening awareness had been tailing him since the moment he stepped into these woods. Possibly before. But there was an unguarded gap in the tree line where the creature before him must have come from—a promise of freedom he could snatch if he acted right away.

With a shuddering breath, Orpheus focused on the shadowy forest and shoved to his feet.

He may have made it, if the impression of cold fire across his skin didn’t return at the precise moment he took one step towards the tree line.

Netherflame.

He spun around and found it, a violet fire flickering against the backdrop of a snow white cloak, the cradle of the girl’s palm so intoxicatingly familiar he could nearly feel the little ball of flame in his own.

His fingers came together, grit sliding between his sweat-sickened skin, all the traction he needed to press them tight and—

“His hands, he’s going to cast!” That voice again—and then, another blow to his head.

Orpheus hit the ground with an embarrassing shout.

Hands circled his wrists, squeezing so hard that when his arms wrenched behind his back he barely noticed the pain.

“Hold him up, steady now!”

With a ferocity fit for a rabid hell beast, Orpheus thrashed in the Myrkur’s grip. His eyes lifted to lock not onto the girl perched atop the boulder, but a man who emerged from the tree line. Tall. Broad. Cloaked like the rest. With his back to the sun, he cut a dark figure despite the white of his cloak, his hood drawn so deeply over his head Orpheus could only see the gray of a beard and the downward turn of his mouth. But it was what he held in his hands that stole Orpheus’ breath away. That froze him where he hung, the pain in his head a distant pulse, because that in his mind was so much sharper.

A ring of silver. A pattern of runes. Familiar, in all the ways Orpheus didn’t want to remember.

No. No, no, no—

“Orpheus Zon Ziffler of the Empress’ Exalted Court?”