I woke up with the kind of headache that made me think someone had slipped a cathedral bell inside my skull and then rung it for fun.
My first instinct was to groan, but that would have required breath, and breath was a scarce commodity when Hollow was plastered against my side like a man auditioning for the role of "human scarf."
His arm was draped across my waist, his leg tangled over mine, and his forehead pressed against my temple in that infuriatingly affectionate way that suggested he'd been in this position for hours. Worse still, he was cooing—a soft, rhythmic little hum that tickled my ear and made my skin crawl in that half-amused, half-horrified way you get when someone is trying to pet you like a beloved housecat.
I tried shifting away, but Hollow had that unconscious grip strength unique to sleeping men and dying sailors clinging to bits of wreckage. All I managed was to tilt my head a few inches toward the edge of the pillow before the bell in my skull rang again, reminding me that I'd barely slept in the first place.
And of course, I knew why I hadn't slept. It had started again. The woman. The one who began appearing in my mind after I touched the cube in the secret chamber—the little psychic souvenir I hadn't exactly asked for but was too tempted to peel myself away from.
The first few times she'd been a vague silhouette, like my brain was struggling to load a portrait in bad lighting. But now… now she was clearer. Her cheeks had color, flushed with some emotion I couldn't quite place—shyness, maybe, or fever. The folds of her clothing were visible now, the fabric draping in soft, deliberate lines that whispered wealth. Her hair—gods, her hair—was long and silken, snowy white but with that odd strip of green tucked deep within the mass, like some secret she didn't mean for anyone to find.
It was messy, but not in the accidental way. More… artfully disheveled, like she'd spent an hour making it look like she'd just rolled out of bed. She kept trying to whisper things to me, her lips moving with intent, but in the hazy fog of my not-quite-sleep, I couldn't catch a single word. Just the shape of her mouth, the promise of sound. Maddening.
I told myself it was nothing. I told myself that more than once, actually, because saying it out loud in my head somehow made it more believable. She was just another trick of the mind. A figment. Something my subconscious had cobbled together out of scraps of faces I'd seen before. I refused to let it get under my skin. Instead, I untangled myself from Hollow with the slow precision of a man defusing an explosive, rolled out of bed, and made for the mirror propped against the far wall.
My reflection looked like it had been through three nights of bad decisions and one very long fall. Pale skin, dark circles, hair that was less "artfully disheveled" and more "cursed by an ill-tempered wind spirit." Still, a smile tugged at my lips. It was time. Time to set the plan into motion.
I placed my fingertips lightly against the frame, closed my eyes, and activated Divine Femmeform.
The shift was… intoxicating. The way the magic curled through my veins, rewriting lines and angles, redrawing me in a softer, sharper script. Shoulders narrowing, waist tapering, features smoothing into that perfectly calculated mask.
When I opened my eyes again, Cecil Valen was gone. In his place stood, Callie, the figure who had infiltrated the church and turned the selection of the new high priest into a memorable evening of chaos. Long lashes, a sly curve to the lips, a body honed for elegance and distraction both.
I decided then that this was the identity I'd wear into the tournament—not because I loved the disguise, though I did, but because it kept me dangerous and unpredictable. After all, an unknown is harder to kill than a legend everyone thinks they understand.
Though in order to utilize this identity to its maximum potential, I would need to seal it as a secret between those who had witnessed it, meaning most of the church's officials and the city council.
I adjusted a curl of hair over my shoulder and began moving. First stop: the church's own halls. The transformation was more than skin deep—these corridors no longer looked like the stern walkways of a holy order. My handiwork was everywhere. Gone were the austere displays of religious artifacts and the self-important murals of saints who'd clearly been painted by people with very forgiving imaginations.
In their place: silk stockings draped on gilded stands, miniskirts displayed in glass cases like relics of divine origin, and a few private performance alcoves so tastefully decadent they almost counted as art. Almost. It brought a suspicious sting to my eyes.
Nothing like seeing the fruits of your labor—especially when those fruits involved utterly corrupting the sanctity of a place that once looked down its nose at you.
One by one, I visited the high officials of the church. Each received the same calm instructions, delivered with that poised, faintly dangerous smile: keep my secret identity as Callie sealed.
No slips, no "accidental" revelations to curry favor. Secrets were the lifeblood of my plan, and this one was a particularly precious vein. They nodded, some eagerly, some with the wary obedience of people who had learned the hard way not to test me.
By the time I stepped into the main hall, I exhaled a long, satisfying sigh. That was the hardest part—done. Or so I thought. Because, of course, there was still the council. Those lovely vultures had been there on coronation day, which meant they knew exactly what I looked like under this face. They would need… careful handling.
And then, as if the heavens themselves had decided to reward my forethought, I heard a knock at the front door.
I opened it to find the City Council. On their knees. Practically weeping at my feet.
Now, I'm not a man easily taken by sentiment, but I'll admit there was a flutter of pride in my chest at the sight. They spilled over themselves thanking me—yes thanking me—for taking up their mission and deflecting the assassin.
Their words tumbled out in a glorious heap, and I stood there soaking it in like a cat in the sun. Then they got to the good part: my reward. A ten-year contract with discretionary funds, complete ownership of Graywatch Academy, and various archives filled with secrets from other cathedrals. I'd almost forgotten about that little arrangement. Almost.
I laughed, low and pleased, and drew a small stamped envelope from my coat. I pressed it into Council Virelan's hand—the one who had roped me into this in the first place—and leaned in to whisper my final insurance. The envelope contained instructions: keep my identity sealed. No exceptions.
When they left, everything felt… aligned. Which is why, later that day, I felt almost generous when I found Salem in the church's gardens.
He was leaning against the low stone wall, sunlight catching on the steel of the sword he tossed lazily from hand to hand. "You're late," he said, the words dry enough to chafe.
I just smiled and spread my hands. "Fashionably."
Behind him loomed the hedge maze. Massive, dark green walls twisting and turning until they disappeared into shadow. It was the kind of maze you could get lost in for days, if the hedges didn't decide to eat you first. Salem nodded toward it. "Today, you learn the next level of Incarnic enhancements—enhancing the body's senses. More complex than basic enhancements, but you'll manage."
My brows arched. "Oh, good. I was worried things might get too easy."
He smirked. "Rodrick's waiting for you inside. Go."
I stared at the maze. The maze stared back. Then I sighed, squared my shoulders, and stepped forward.
The hedges swallowed me whole.
The moment I stepped inside, the sunlight dimmed, the cool green walls closing in like the throat of some patient, leafy beast. My boots sank into the soft earth with each step, the faint crunch of gravel underfoot sounding louder than it should have in the muffled stillness. The air smelled of cut greenery and something damp—like old rainwater that had been sitting just long enough to go sour.
I trailed my fingers along the hedge to my left, the leaves brushing my knuckles in that faintly itchy way that made me wonder if the maze had been trimmed recently… or if Salem had simply decided my training environment needed to be both deadly and allergenic.
The first few turns were simple enough—left, right, another right. I kept my pace deliberately slow, trying to get a feel for the rhythm of the place. My mind started mapping it, cataloguing each twist and corridor like a thief casing a nobleman's estate.
The ground here sloped just slightly to the south, which might mean a drainage path, which might mean a quicker route to the center. A breeze drifted through the hedges, carrying with it a whisper of the garden beyond, and for a moment, I could almost pretend this was going to be civil.
Then a shadow flickered at the corner of my vision.
I froze, the weight of my sword suddenly very real in my grip. My head whipped around and—there. A figure. Just at the edge of the turn I'd come from, tall, featureless, its form blurring into the darkness like oil smoke. Instinct took over before reason could catch up. I lunged, my blade cutting a vicious arc toward its center. The steel passed through it cleanly, without resistance, and the thing dissolved into a puff of black mist that curled in the air before vanishing completely.
"Miko," I muttered under my breath. Of course he'd be involved. Shadow play was practically his love language.
No sooner had I exhaled than something far more solid came at me from the opposite side. Rodrick—moving fast enough that my brain had to catch up in increments—was already in mid-lunge before I'd even turned. I barely twisted out of the way, feeling the kiss of air as his blade passed within inches of my ribs. I spun, sword up in time to parry his next strike, the clang of metal ringing sharp in the confined space.
My body moved on the kind of reflex you only get from having survived too many people trying to kill you in too many creative ways. But Rodrick pressed hard, and I knew that holding him here, in this narrow strip of path, was suicide. Instead, I slashed not at him but at the hedge itself, my blade biting through branches and leaves until I carved an opening wide enough to dive through.
The hedge yielded with a reluctant tear, and I bolted, leaves catching in my hair as I stumbled into the next corridor. Behind me, there was a beat of surprise before Rodrick's heavier footfalls followed—but too late. I was gone.
That reprieve lasted all but three turns.
The shadows came in waves now, flickering just at the edges of my sight, darting from wall to wall with inhuman speed. Every time they leapt at me, my body reacted the same—blade swinging up, cutting through nothing but mist. Each strike bled energy, the strain creeping into my shoulders and wrists. My breathing turned shallow, my heartbeat a rhythm of irritation. If this was Miko's idea of fun, I was going to have words with him later. Possibly through the medium of fire.
It hit me mid-swing: I couldn't win this way.
The shadows weren't the enemy. They were distractions—noise in the signal. Rodrick was the signal. And I wasn't going to beat him by chasing smoke.
That's when it clicked. This wasn't just about speed or muscle—it was about senses. Salem had said as much. I'd been thinking with my arms and legs when I should have been thinking with my ears.
I slowed, forcing my pulse to match my breath. The next shadow darted from the wall; I let it pass. Another dropped from above; I stepped aside without even raising my sword. Instead, I turned inward, focusing on the strange, undefined place below my sternum. The Astral Nexus. I pictured not muscle this time, but my ears—the inner coils of them, the fine bones and membranes, the way sound shivered through them like ripples in a pond. I pushed the energy there, willing it to flood that space, to sharpen it until the world's quiet became a roar.
"Enhance," I whispered.
Nothing happened.
I tried again. The energy scattered like marbles rolling off a table. My jaw tightened. Third attempt. Still nothing but the faintest prickle in my eardrums.
Fourth time, I closed my eyes. I imagined my ears stretching outward, like nets cast into a vast sea. This time, the warmth gathered there, a steady hum that bloomed into clarity. And then… gods.
The maze came alive.
I could hear the individual leaves brushing against each other in the wind, the faint creak of branches shifting under the weight of some perched bird, the slow, deliberate drag of my own breath. And beneath it all, distant but distinct—the soft, rhythmic thump of boots on earth.
Rodrick.
I dropped into a crouch and pressed my ear to the ground. The vibrations ran up through my jaw, clearer than sight. He wasn't far. I followed the sound, each step narrowing the gap until the noise opened into an echo. Stone. Water.
The center.
I slipped into the clearing like a shadow myself, catching sight of him standing near a fountain—a grand thing carved in the shape of some winged saint pouring water from a jar. His back was to me, but his posture was tight, wary.
Perfect.
I surged forward, blade flashing. The ambush worked—sort of. He twisted at the last second, my strike glancing off his side, cutting fabric but not flesh. His eyes found mine, and any trace of surprise vanished under a hard, blazing focus.
Then he came at me.
Rodrick's attacks were fast before; now they were feral. Each blow hammered into my guard, forcing me back step by step. Steel rang on steel, the sound ricocheting off the hedges. I fought to match his rhythm, but there was a raw edge to him—ragged breaths tearing from his throat, strikes carrying not just precision but something heavier. Something… unstable.
Blood welled on my arm where his blade had slipped through my defense. My own counterstrikes became purely defensive, every muscle straining to keep him from cutting through me entirely. There was no banter here, no training formality—this was the kind of violence that didn't know when to stop.
And then, one final slash—hard enough to jar my wrist—sent my sword flying from my hand. I stared at him over the bare line of his blade, the point hovering just short of my chest. My heartbeat pounded against it, as if daring him to finish.
But he didn't.
Instead, Rodrick's arm trembled. His breathing fractured. And then—gods—the sound that ripped out of him was like nothing I'd heard from him before. A raw, guttural cry that seemed to drag every jagged edge of his soul into the open air. It echoed off the maze walls, bounced back on itself until it felt like the whole garden was grieving with him.
His sword dropped. He pressed a hand over his face, shoulders shaking. The tears came hard, ugly, unrestrained.
I didn't think. I stepped forward, closing the space between us, and caught his wrists, pulling his hands gently away.
"Hey," I said, softer than I'd meant to. I wiped the tears from under his eyes, my fingers brushing the roughness of his cheek.
Then I pulled him in, my arms wrapping around his back. He clung to me like a drowning man to driftwood, his grip digging into my spine. The sounds he made now were smaller, whimpers muffled against my shoulder. I held on, just letting him… be.
That's when the hedge behind us ripped open. Salem stepped through, sword in hand, leaves scattering in his wake. His eyes flicked over us, his expression unreadable but sharp enough to cut. For a moment, he said nothing, just stood there in the space his blade had carved, the quiet between us thick as the air before a storm.
I refused to let go of Rodrick.