golden vases, reached up, and grabbed the two scrolls. Tied with blue ribbons, they felt unnaturally cold. He tossed one to Mori, untied the ribbon on his scroll, and began unrolling it.
"Wait," Mori whispered.
Bayrin paused, the scroll half-unrolled in his hands. "What is it?"
She shivered, the scroll rolled up in her hand. "What if… what if there are phoenixes out there? In the forest." She sniffed. "Lacrimosa Hill is only a league away. What if he sees us?"
Bayrin frowned. The princess was trembling and pale; Bayrin had never seen anyone look so frightened.
"Who is he, Mori?" he said, scrutinizing her.
She knuckled tears from her eyes, bit her lip, and clutched the sixth finger on her left hand.
"I mean… the phoenixes." Her voice was so quiet he barely heard.
Bayrin patted her shoulder, but she flinched and lowered her eyes. He sighed and said, "Mori, the phoenixes want to kill us. And they think we're all in these tunnels. They won't waste time searching a bleak forest a league away. Once we magically appear there, we'll find a nice, empty hill far from any phoenixes. And if they are there? Well, you're the fastest dragon in Requiem, right? You escaped thousands of those phoenixes before. If any lurk in the forest, just fly away, fast as you can. I'll be right behind you."
That seemed only to terrify her further. For the first time, she met his eyes. Tears rolled down her cheeks. "But I don't want to flee them! I want to hide here." She clutched his sleeve. "Please, Bayrin, please let's not go. Please! Let's just find a place to hide here underground, or… or look for a different, better magical artifact."
"Mori!" Bayrin groaned inwardly, and he felt his anger rise. "You're the one who wanted to find the Moondisk in the first place, remember? You can't back out now! I know you're scared, but… stars, Mori. Crying and trembling won't help us defeat the phoenixes, will it?" She began to sob, and Bayrin rolled his eyes and softened his voice. "Look, Mors, I know you can do this. I believe in you. So chin up. Stand straight. Be brave. I'm with you, remember?"
She nodded, sniffing and rubbing her eyes. "All right." Her voice was so soft, he barely heard.
He helped her untie the ribbon binding her map. "On the count of three, all right?"
She nodded, face white and lips trembling, but she met his gaze. Her voice was but a whisper. "All right."
Just to be safe, Bayrin clutched the hilt of his sword. "One… two… three…"
They unrolled their Portal Scrolls, and Bayrin looked at his. It showed an ancient map, torn in one place, its ink faded. He recognized Nova Vita in the north and the ruins of Draco Murus in the east. And in the center, between small ink trees, a red star was drawn above Lacrimosa Hill.
The star began to spin and glow.
Bayrin looked over the map at Mori. She stood before him in the Chamber of Artifacts, staring at her map. She looked up to meet his gaze…
…and the world swirled.
The chamber twisted like a whirlpool. Mori's face stretched, ten feet long and curving. Light pulsed. Bayrin felt nausea rise in him. He winced and raised his hands, but his fingers extended across the room, and the shelves coiled, and shadows leaped. Then the room bulged and rippled, like a reflection in a pond under rain, and sparks rained. With a pulse of light, branches rustled, smoke filled his nostrils, and black streaks settled into the forms of burnt birches. The shadows faded, and Bayrin found himself standing in puddles of melted snow in a smoldering forest.
Mori was nowhere to be seen.
Frowning, Bayrin drew his sword and looked around. Something had gone wrong. The smell of smoke filled his nostrils. He was in the right place—this was the hill where, according to legend, the tyrant Dies Irae slew Lacrimosa, Queen of Requiem. But shouldn't Mori's scroll have pointed here too?
"Mori!" he whispered, belly churning.
Figures stepped out from behind the trees.
Bayrin cursed.
There were six of them. They wore breastplates over chain mail, the steel so bright it was almost white. Their hair was platinum, their skin golden, their eyes blue. Their sabres bore pommels shaped as rising suns.
Tirans, Bayrin knew. These are their human forms.
One of them—a tall and slim woman, her breastplate snug against her body—wore a golden mask. She removed it slowly and smiled at him.
"Hello again, Bayrin."
It was Solina.
Still clutching his sword, Bayrin raised his